Threat

“Avor, Ashta?”

The smile she gives him is sharp. “Why yes. I think it’s a lovely fit, don’t you? Far enough way so I don’t have to see you, but close enough that I’ll be near if you need me.” She closes the gap and grips his chin in her hand. “And you will need me, little brother. You may be the king of Avor’s type, but he is still a king. You know how a king treats his consorts.”

“Hi…his type?” Wes asks, hating the tremor in his voice.