I drink down a good portion of my alcohol then, wanting to be anywhere other than right here in this conversation with Kane.

“Selene, are you listening?” Kane says.

I glance up too quickly from my drink, realizing the shifter has been talking. Shit, maybe he has been asking me about Nero.

I sway a little, and my drink slips from my hands, the last of it spilling onto the sand.

Kane frowns, eyeing me up and down. “How drunk are you?”

I shake my head, swaying more as I reach down to grab my empty cup. “I’m not drunk. I haven’t even had one full glass.”

The lycanthrope’s brow furrows. He steps in close and leans into my neck, breathing me in.

“Kane,” I say, pushing him back.

“You smell off.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I say, laughing semihysterically. “You don’t know me well enough to know what I smell like.”

Behind us, one of the other shifters whistles and gestures that they’re getting ready to leave.

Kane nods to the shifter, then his gaze flicks over me. “My pack is getting ready to leave. I want you to come with us.” Though it’s a suggestion, there’s a thread of his power in his voice. I’m not a lycanthrope, but even I am compelled by the order in it.

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you trying to assert your dominance over me?” I say skeptically, a wisp of anger rising in me.

His features harden. “Yes,” he says. “And you can like it or not, but, Selene, I’m not backing down on this. The last time I let you go, both you and your familiar got hurt. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

I stare at him for a moment. “This is all because I smell funny?”

He presses his lips together, then slightly dips his head. Yes.

I want to laugh; the whole situation is beyond absurd. But the man is obviously serious, and I have no doubt he means what he says.

Which means I have three options: One, go along with what he says like a good little witch. Two, stand my ground and go toe-to-toe with an alpha werewolf. Or three, run.

I am a powerful witch, daughter of those who shaped the world and bent it to their will. I have a legacy to uphold.

Which I’ll do on another day.

I turn on my heel and dash away. I also nearly eat shit three steps into my getaway sprint.

Alcohol and sand do not mix well.

I flail, then right myself and book it, using a pinch of my magic to spur me onward and help my balance.

Behind me, Kane growls, the sound full of annoyance and maybe a little possessive promise. Then he’s chasing after me.

I manage to run a total of maybe ten steps before his arms wrap around my waist and he swings me over his shoulder, causing my skirt to ride up. Only a quick spurt of my magic prevents the whole party from seeing my ass.

A group of nearby witches and mages whoop and catcall us.

“I’m done playing,” Kane growls into my ear, ignoring the attention we’re receiving. “We’re going.”

I see red.

Who’s offended you, est amage?

You stay out of this.

I fear for the person who crossed you, Memnon says a little too gleefully for the sentiment to be genuine. Also, the eyes are a great place to attack first.

I’m not interested in Kane’s eyes.

To Kane, I say, “I will curse your dick to shrivel up and fall off if you don’t put me down.”

“That’s more than a little disturbing,” Kane says, “but you and I both know that I won’t be cowed by a threat.”

Before I can respond—or gather my magic—Kane presses his nose into my side and gives me another sniff. “You still don’t smell right,” he says.

I want to scream. Instead, my power rolls off me in agitated waves.

The lycan must sense it, because he says, “Don’t make a scene.”

Going to murder him. Going to enjoy it too.

“Says the man who’s kidnapping me,” I hiss out. I bet he doesn’t want a scene. Makes him look bad.

“I’m not kidnapping you,” he says. “I’m—” His words are interrupted when another shifter comes up to him, asking about fuck knows what.

Across the party, I catch sight of Sybil, who mouths, Are you okay?

No, I respond.

Immediately, she shoves her drink at someone and begins walking toward us, determination in her eyes.

Before she can do anything, however, I reach my arm out toward the cliffside, where over a dozen brooms rest.

“Come to me,” I order in Sarmatian, flicking a bit of magic out. I feel like a drunk Jedi as I call out to one of the brooms.

The alcohol is blunting a bit of my power, because for a second, the broom I focus on does nothing more than tremble where it leans against the sheer rock. But then, a little sluggishly, it peels itself from the wall and cuts through the crowd, knocking supernaturals aside.

The broom lands in my hands.

Success.

Kane glances over his shoulder.

“Fly us home,” I command the broom.

It jerks forward, pulling me with it.

Kane curses as I slip through his grip. It’s not my proudest moment, scrambling to drag myself onto the wooden handle and away from Kane’s determined hold.

I’ve just gotten myself firmly on it when the broom launches forward, and now I am cutting through the party, bowling people over.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I call out as I go.

Kane strides after me, but Sybil’s magic is pouring out across the beach, likely to stop the shifter from getting any closer to me. My heart swells; she’s such a fucking amazing friend.

“Selene!” Kane bellows, his lupine eyes glinting when I glance back at him.

So much for not causing a scene.

I will the broom to rotate around so I can face the lycan head on.

“Screw you, Kane!” My voice rings out. “No one orders a witch around.”

The crowd around me must agree because, despite running into several of them, I hear whoops and cheers.

My broom lifts higher into the sky, above the reach of Kane and everyone else there, and then I’m zipping away.

For one exhilarating minute, I enjoy the absolute victory of besting the determined lycan.

Then I realize one huge, glaring error—I spelled my broom to fly home. I don’t want to go home. I simply wanted to get away from Kane.

I’m about to order my broom to turn around when a gust of wind blows my broom sideways and nearly unseats me. When I right myself, the world spins.

I blink several times, trying to clear my sight, but the world is still spinning, and my broom is still climbing higher and higher into the air. I’m now fifty feet or so above the ground and very, very intoxicated. Impossibly so.

I grip the broom handle tightly, feeling nauseous.

I had less than one full drink. Even if the vodka was really strong, it shouldn’t affect me this intensely. Not unless⁠—

Unless it was spiked.

Devil’s dick. Did someone spike my drink? Or Olga’s drink, since she gave it to me? Did she do it?

Fuck, Kane must’ve been right after all to worry about me, even if he went about it in the most atrocious way possible.

I call on my power. “Lower me to the ground,” I command in Sarmatian.

My magic comes out of me in sluggish spurts, but rather than lowering, my broom jerks beneath my grip, nearly throwing me off.

“Seven hells,” I curse, righting myself.

It bounces again, and my body tips sideways. As I tip, the world spins.

Shit, shit, shit.

I desperately wrap my arms and legs around the broom as I’m fully unseated, clinging to the underside of my airborne broom.

This is fucking unfortunate.

I glance over my shoulder only to see the earth passing by fifty feet below me. My broom bounces again and again and again, eventually dislodging my feet. I’m too terrified to yelp out as my legs slip off the broom, leaving me hanging from it by my hands.