This time, David was the one who moped on the ride home—and it was freaking hard to maintain his game-face because Alun talked to him almost non-stop in The Voice. Dang it.

“Dafydd, be reasonable. Although if you were to stay in Faerie permanently, you’d be safe, it has its disadvantages.”

No kidding. Like no family, no job, and a boyfriend/husband who wouldn’t have committed unless he was forced.

“If you stay in the Outer World, you have to expect aggression from other disgruntled or damaged supes like Jackson Hoffenberg. If you refuse to hide, refuse protective charms from your aunt—”

“Mmmphm.”

“All right then, from some other druid circle. You’re setting yourself up as a target. Don’t you see? Becoming my consort is the only logical solution.”

Logic is not what I’m looking for here, Dr. Reasonable.

By the time they pulled up outside David’s house, his jaw ached from grinding his molars—Jeez, not talking was fricking hard!

A figure was standing on the sidewalk, and for a moment, David thought it might be the Consort—that Alun’s alarmist manifesto was actually correct. But then he saw the dark hair and leather jacket. As soon as Alun stopped the car, David hopped out, leaving Alun to follow as he chose.

“Mal!” David rushed over and hugged Mal again, although he only got a one-armed bro backslap in return. “You know, I’d think you could lose the leather in this weather.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? Some of us are willing to sacrifice comfort to keep our image intact.”

“Come inside. I want you to meet my aunt. If she—”

“Oi. She’s a druid, right?”

David frowned. “Well yeah. So?”

“Remember what I said about the fae-druid feud? No offense to your aunt, but druids aren’t my favorite people.”

“Oh suck it up and deal.” He grabbed Mal’s elbow and hauled him to the porch, Alun trailing in their wake. He opened the door and rushed inside. “Auntie?”

Instead of lying immobile in her bed as he’d last seen her, or sitting in her rocker with her cane at her side, his aunt was standing in the kitchen, pouring tea fragrant with mint and raspberry into four cups.

David raced across the room and grabbed her in a hug.

“Thank goodness. I thought I’d lost you.”

“If you don’t want me to accidentally pour hot tea down your drawers, cariad, you need to release me.” Her words were typical of her old tart self, but her voice wobbled.

He let go, took the teapot out of her hand, and placed it on the counter. Then he hugged the stuffing out of her, and she hugged him back.

Alun loomed at David’s side. “Elder. I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered.”

No thanks to you, as I recall. “Auntie, this is Alun’s broth—”

“Maldwyn Cynwrig.” No wobble in her voice now. Sheesh. What did Mal do to piss her off?

Mal winced. “Elder.”

“Be at ease. You are welcome here. As welcome as Lord Cynwrig.”

Uh-oh. Guess Alun pissed her off too. Time to redirect.

“Hey, what’s this?” An ornate chest the size of a shoebox sat on the counter. Dragons, complete with scales and tiny jeweled eyes, decorated the top. “Nola usually goes for plant-based themes.”

“This isn’t one of hers. Three gentlemen, two extremely large and one quite small, delivered this to our doorstep this morning.”

David ran a tentative finger over the exquisitely carved dragon. “Did you look inside?”

She took a sip of her tea. “It’s not mine to open.”

“Maybe the key is in here.” David picked up a heavy parchment envelope with his name inscribed in perfect calligraphy. It was sealed with blood-red wax.

“Perhaps. But that arrived by a different method. Pushed under the door sometime last night.”

Alun sidled closer and peered at the seal. “That’s the crest of the vampire council.”

“Um . . . should I be worried?”

Mal hitched himself onto a barstool. “If the vampires were pissed at you, they wouldn’t send you a greeting card—they’d send an assassin. With fangs. Open it.”

David eased the wax away from the envelope and drew out a folded sheet of the same parchment. “I guess if they were sending a letter bomb, they’d have used the cheap paper.” The sheet was covered in beautiful calligraphy in a deep-red ink, but . . . “What language is this?”

Mal looked over his shoulder. “I think it’s Hungarian.”

“Seriously? Jeez, for all I know, it could be a death threat.”

Alun’s hand settled at the small of David’s back, chasing a shiver up his spine. Don’t give in. Not on those terms. “It’s a thank-you note.”

David peered up at Alun’s perfect jawline from under raised eyebrows. “You understand Hungarian?”

Alun shrugged. “Two hundred years of house arrest. I had a lot of time at my disposal.” He held out a hand. “May I?”

Not only was he drop-dead gorgeous, a hero, and lord of the freaking Sidhe, but he was a universal translator too? Swell. Didn’t mean David wasn’t still pissed at him for being a pigheaded control dictator. “Knock yourself out.”

“‘We, the World Vampire council, recognize the signal service performed by David Evans on behalf of our esteemed leader. In appreciation, we declare David Evans under our protection in perpetuity. Any who seek to harm him shall feel the full wrath of the vampire race.’ Signed by Kristof Czardos and the entire council.”

Mal whistled, long and low. Even Aunt Cassie looked impressed.

Alun folded the oversized page and handed it back. “By the way, that’s not written in ink.”

Okay. Ewww. David took the note between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure what Miss Manners says about the etiquette of using blood for your official correspondence.”

“Davey, you need to put that in a safe place.”

“No need for that,” Alun said. “It’s indestructible. If it’s burned, lost, or otherwise destroyed, it will reappear in its original state within twenty-four hours.”

“You’re kidding me. Even their letters are undead?”

“You shouldn’t discount it, Dafydd. The vampire council has essentially promised death to anyone who hurts you.”

“Awesome.”

“However, you might want to frame it and put it in a prominent location. The protection won’t work that well if nobody knows about it.”

“Yeah. The whole doomsday thingy. I learned all about that by watching Dr. Strangelove.”

Alun blinked at him. “What?”

“We are so going to have a movie night. Or twenty.”

Alun grinned and moved closer. “We are?”

Oops. “I mean, someday. We might. If I decide to forgive you.”

“If you two are done, I want to see what’s in the box.” Mal tapped the lid. “Shite. You sure there’s no key?”

“No keyhole either.” Alun spun the box to face him, but failed to open it. “Hmmm. Maybe a little fae magic?”

David rescued the box. “No messing about with magical nukes.” He ran his fingers over the dragon’s intricately veined wings. “It’s too beautiful to mar. Maybe it’s not supposed to open.”

“It’s got hinges.”

David gripped the top of the box to turn it around, and the lid gapped. “Oh.” He raised it the rest of the way. It was lined with velvet, and full to the brim with a rainbow of faceted jewels.

“Gwydion’s bollocks,” Mal murmured. “A dragon’s hoard?”

“What’s that?” Alun pointed to a sliver of matte white amid the sparkling mass.

Fingers trembling, David carefully moved the jewels aside and pulled out a small plastic figure in a white tunic. “Luke Skywalker. Holy cats, these must be from Benjy, but this can’t be right. We should return these to his mother right away.”

“No, Dafydd.” Alun took Luke and set him on top of a thumbnail-sized ruby. “The box opened for you. This is another thank-you note. The dragon shifters are grateful for your aid to their prince. This is how they show their gratitude. If you refuse it, you’ll offend them.”

“I— But . . . Jeez.” David plunked his butt down on a barstool. “What the heck does this mean?”

“First, it means the dragon shifters have got your back too, and where the dragon council goes, the rest of the shifters follow. Second, it means you don’t have to temp anymore. You have the means to be a gentleman of leisure.”

“Oh, no. You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll go back to school. Get my RN. Maybe even become a nurse practitioner.” He poked Alun in the chest. “A psychiatric nurse practitioner. Because the supe community needs me. And so do you.”

Alun’s glower made a return appearance. “Perhaps, but don’t forget my conditions. You need me too, and there’s only one way I can guarantee protection.”

David tapped his chin. “Hmmm. Let’s see. I’m safe from shifters, vampires, and any harm in Faerie.”

His scowl faltered. “Yes.” He drew out the word, as if searching for the trick.

“Can any fae get crazy with me out here in the human world?”

“Since the Queen has declared you untouchable in Faerie, if any of her subjects break her decree, no matter where they are, they risk her displeasure.”

“‘Displeasure,’ huh?”

“Don’t discount it,” Mal said. “Her displeasure just dumped a curse—” Mal suddenly found the counter extremely interesting.

“Mal?” Jeez, I was so focused on Aunt Cassie and Alun, I didn’t look closely enough at him. Where the heck is his glamourie scruff? “Are you okay?”

“Never better, boyo.” He shot David the same confident, come-on grin as at their first meeting, but if David squinted, he could see the faint tangle of red in Mal’s head. Mental pain—or else I’m a lie-detector now too.

“Goddess,” Alun murmured. “‘Ye shall lose whate’r you seek to take.’ Mal.” Alun shifted into his Dr. Take-No-Prisoners voice—or maybe it was just his big-brother voice. “Show me your sword hand.”

Mal sighed and drew his right hand out of his pocket. It looked normal—good color, no wounds, but the fingers curled in toward the palm and they weren’t moving.

David reached for it. “May I?” When Mal nodded, David cradled it in both of his. “It’s— I can’t see the lines. With Gareth, with Alun, I could see the way their pain eddied in their bodies, how to draw it away. But with you—it’s like your hand isn’t even there. The energy lines end at your wrist, just like the ex-Consort’s after the Queen healed him.”

“That’s because of the way the blasted consort law works,” Alun growled. “He took Rodric’s hand, so he loses his own.”

Mal shrugged. “I’ll deal.” He was obviously trying to throw down his bad-boy-don’t-care attitude, but the worry line between his brows and the pinch of pain at the corners of his eyes gave away the lie.

“Screw that.” David stroked his hand from wrist to fingertips. “Can you feel that?”

Mal shook his head. “At least it doesn’t hurt. Guess I ought to be thankful for small favors, eh?”

“We’ll work on it. I know a PT who can give you some exercises.”

“Are you mental? Physical therapy for a Faerie tynged?”

David gave Mal his best stink-eye stare, improved by observation of Alun’s world-class glower. “Has anyone tried it before?”

Mal scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Then how do you know it won’t work?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

David propped his fists on his hips. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Skeptic, you don’t make sense. Faerie doesn’t make sense. Druids in twenty-first century Portland don’t make sense. Don’t be such a big baby. Just because it’ll be hard—”

“I’m not afraid of work.” He crossed his arms, tucking his unresponsive hand on the inside as if he were afraid David would snatch it and have his wicked achubydd way with it. “Or of pain.”

“Then what have you got to lose? Honestly.”

He rounded on Alun, who stumbled back a few steps. “And you, Dr. You-Don’t-Have-a-Choice, what exactly would I gain from being your consort that I don’t already have?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” From the sorrow in his eyes, he’d already given up. Jeez, these Sidhe dudes are so fatalistic. “Only me.”

“In that case,” David stalked forward and wrapped his arms around Alun’s waist, “I accept.”

Alun pulled back, a bewildered frown puckering his forehead. “But . . . you . . . I thought—”

“When will you guys learn to ask? I love you, but I want the choice. And you deserve choice too. How twisted is it to be forced to marry because some asshole fairy tried to kill me and random supes are too fricking entitled to ask instead of take?”

Alun smiled, and in his too-handsome-for-his-shirt mode, David’s knees turned to water. “You love me?”

David smacked him in the biceps to cover up his extremely unmanly urge to fling himself onto that delectable chest and cling like a bad suit. “I told you that, doofus. For a psychologist, you totally suck at listening.” He captured Alun’s perfect cheekbones between his hands. “Alun Kendrick, Lord of the Sidhe and Shrink to the Supes, will you marry me?”

“Goddess, yes. Dafydd—”

David put his hand on Alun’s chest to ward off a hug. “I have conditions, though.”

“I almost dare not ask.”

“You planning on calling me ‘the Consort’? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not signing up for that.”

Alun’s smile widened. “I think we can work around it.”

“Good.” He stroked Alun’s cheek. “Is it weird that I miss your old face?”

“As to that . . .” Suddenly, the brow ridges were back, Alun’s skull once more oversized, the nose, the cheekbones—everything but the scar. Because he’s not gutted anymore. He has me.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Mal snorted. “Glamourie to make yourself ugly? That may be a first.”

“Oh shut up, Mal.” David caught Alun’s hand and drew him out of the kitchen and into the darkened hallway. He nuzzled Alun’s jaw and was rewarded with a familiar growl. Alun kissed him, hot and possessive and his.

When they broke apart to breathe, Alun leaned his misshapen forehead against David’s. “I love you, Dafydd.”

Finally. “Excellent. Then let’s do the wild thing, Dr. Beast. I’m in a healing mood.”