If Krustalus had committed the crime, he would be far too clever to trip up unless his conceit got the best of him. But learning that the bastard had touched Tezra intimately without her permission took the game to a different level. He assumed from the way she acted that Krustalus had bitten her. Daemon figured Krustalus wanted her—not dead as he had first presumed, but as his mate. If Krustalus thought he could intimidate the woman without consequences, let him tangle with an ancient more his match. Seated next to the expansive windows overlooking the rugged Oregon coastline, Daemon tapped his fingers on the table. He considered the antique-looking coins—replicas of ones he’d used three hundred years earlier—buried in the clear plastic tabletop, nestled against dark, seasoned wood trimmed by a white braided rope. He glanced at his watch. Krustalus was fifteen minutes late. The sound of conversations and the aroma of fresh fish frying in spicy sauces fil ed the air. Daemon tuned out the background noise and watched the clouds building, darkening, casting shadows across the foaming waves.
