The Problem with Promises by Leigh Evans Read Free Book Online

suitcase or a boat in a tackle box, just get him off my land.”
    That was the good part: he’d pulled back at the last minute; giving me the illusion that he was—despite all claims to the contrary—still civilized. But then, in my opinion, he’d overcorrected. He’d moved from blade to telecommunications.
    Standing shirtless and barefoot on the crabgrass, he’d used his scarred thumb to work the menu on Knox’s phone.
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I’d said, intuiting his intentions.
    My mate hadn’t deigned to answer. Brows pulled together, he’d scrolled to Whitlock’s e-mail address. “Trowbridge, it’s a really bad, bad idea,” I’d murmured as he’d attached the video to an e-mail. He’d given me a sideways glance. A flicker of blue fire in his eyes. Daring me.
    I’d said, “Don’t do it.”
    To which he’d replied, “Have to.”
    Then the Alpha of Creemore had hit Send and with one squeeze of his scarred thumb, it was done. No, no, no. He already wore a “kill-me” sticker on his forehead, compliments of the Fae. One wasn’t enough? Now I asked, with remarkable control, “Did you have to send the video to Whitlock? He’s already got a reason to want to come down and hurt us.”
    The Alpha of Creemore had returned to his favorite seat. Blue eyes lifted and pinned me with a pretty good impression of Clint Eastwood—but back in the day when Clint wore a sombrero and smoked thin cigars. “Whitlock will gauge my strength by my reaction to the shit he put you through. I just gave him a visual.” He turned to Harry. “Do a tour in an hour, check to make sure all the sentries’ points are well manned.”
    Hello, Son of Lukynae.
    By Goddess, here came the cue ball again. I could feel it there squeezed between the muscles of my throat—had felt it, on and off, ever since my brother and Trowbridge had come back. Fear. But I kept swallowing it down even as it kept rising up. Too large to expel, too uncomfortable to ignore. The strain of having it lodged there hurt my jaw and made the soft tender skin behind my pointed ears feel pulled and taut.
    “It seemed to be overkill to me,” I said.
    “A strong Alpha doesn’t hide, he doesn’t wait, and he doesn’t apologize. He takes the offensive.” My mate sat sprawled in his chair, his long legs stretched out, his arm resting indolently on the table’s edge. He cocked his head to study me through those thick, black lashes.
    My inner-bitch did a moan.
    “Go big or go home,” said Biggs, trying his best to mimic Trowbridge’s sprawl.
    “Quiet, Chihuahua,” snapped Cordelia.
    I sat down. Wanting to do something with my hands, I reached for the resealable plastic bag filled with Knox’s last effects and held it up to the light. He’d traveled light: a heavy ring bristling with keys, a thin faux-alligator wallet, a leather cord from which hung a coin, and one small glass bottle.
    One of these things does not belong with the others.
    The vial was approximately three inches long, topped by a cork stopper. It was empty now, though once it had been filled with sun potion. A single dose taken before the moon would stop the Were’s body from changing into his wolf. Which is a good thing if you don’t want to turn into fangs and fur. But like every other thing in the world, there was a price to it. The longer you took it, the more you craved it. My twin, Lexi, had been an addict and healing him of his increasing need to consume the stuff was the reason I’d agreed to become the Old Mage’s nalera.
    Its presence had bothered me last night, but so many things were happening, rapid-fire, that I hadn’t processed it then. But now I studied the bottle and asked myself some questions I might have asked earlier, if my world hadn’t been tipped sideways. “I thought sun potion only belonged in Merenwyn. I didn’t know that our Weres ever had access to it.”
    “They didn’t,” said Trowbridge. “That’s contraband, probably came