RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 127

I jerked up my chin, squaring my shoulders, silently indicating for Volkov to open the door. I'd run through a few scenarios already and the easiest lie to feed Irma was that I'd been making out with some nameless random I'd picked up at the club.

Not that she had any right to know.

Not now, not ever.

But it would be easier to deal with her theatrics, the tears and begging, if I could give her something to gnaw at and bawl over.

Volkov swung the door open and stepped aside so I could enter.

I took two paces into Chateaux Crappo and ground to an enraged halt.

Cold fury razed through my blood.

I felt my nostrils flare and hot air whooshed out over my top lip. My jaw locked so tight I thought I was going to snap it in fucking half. Standing inside my quarters was the last person I wanted to see.

Hells, I'd rather have come face to face with Irma.

Jeroen swung slowly around and leveled a tyrannical gaze on mine. My father's seething anger engulfed the room like a black storm, almost tangible in the air as it raked up against my skin in frigid gusts that sent a shudder down my spine.

I stalked deeper into the room, which was far too small for the both of us bristling like two dogs straining at leashes. "Dad," I greeted him sourly, heading to where I stored my weapons bag on a luggage rack beside the fireplace. I eyed the bottle of whiskey on the mantle with longing. A long stiff drink was needed to deal with whatever fuckery had brought him to the Deniauds'. "What are you doing here?"

My thoughts instantly speared straight to Laurena. But that wasn't her style. She'd have gone to Irma to cause trouble before heading to my father.

His shock of silver hair was burnished by the dumbass disco ball overhead. It scattered light across the walls and the multitude of porcelain swans like a spray of luminescent raindrops. He pivoted on his heels to keep me in his line of direct sight as I strode across the room, my boots clomping over the stupid cowhide rug.

Jeroen's gritty voice dripped with venom. "You're the one who's forced my physical presence. You're not answering my calls, Varen, and you returned my pager to me in pieces. What else am I to do but come here, son?"

His tall and imperious figure was clothed in a navy double-breasted suit. The soles of his expensive shoes clipped over the floor as he advanced in measure steps. His frosty gaze burned with ice-shredding wrath that I wasn't coming to heel. He was pissed off to Nine Hells he'd had to drag himself from the Keep to speak to me.

Folding my arms over my chest, the bandoleer fitted with small knives jutted against my forearm. It was tempting to palm cold steel and hurl it at him. "What do you want?"

"I think you know the answer to that since you've been so good at avoiding my calls."

"Spit it out, Dad," I replied, bracing myself for his answer. I knew deep down what it would be and it gutted and angered me in equal measure.

"Your presence at the Szarvases' tomorrow night is mandatory." An order, not a request.

"Sorry, no can do, Dad," I replied petulantly as I uncrossed my arms and swung the bandoleer over my head. "I've got shit here to do for Sirro." I tossed the bandoleer onto my battered weapons bag and started unbuckling the narrow straps that bound my sheathed swords to my spine, mostly to distract myself from the eager desire to punch my godsdamned father in the face.

I felt his gaze rake over my figure clad in adamere armor. His tone mellowed and shifted into mild curiosity as he erased the distance between us. "Have you found the Kinslayer?"