There's no point in being angry with the brainless boyfriend; trusting in his authority as the Lycan King is to be expected. All wolves fall under his purview, and even rogues would think thrice before double-crossing the throne.
But I still want to kick his stupid face to the curb.
I slam through the hospital doors with enough force to make the two security guards behind the reception desk jump to their feet.
My wards should have screamed the moment anyone approached Grace's room with harmful intent. They were simple but effective—the magical equivalent of trip wires rigged to flash bombs. Not subtle, but subtlety was never the point.
"Miss, you can't—" a woman in scrubs starts.
I cut her off with a look. "Grace Harper. Where is she? Don't give me any bullshit about her being discharged, either."
The security officers are already acting like I'm another problem in their minimum-wage day. Hands shift toward batons, shoulders square, and there's the wholeI'm-not-looking-at-youside-eye where they're completely tuned in to every breath I breathe.
Well; there's no point in arguing with someone manning the information desk. A quick glance at her lanyard says she's not even a nurse. Why the hell is she even wearing scrubs? She's a receptionist.
Spinning on my heel, I head toward the elevators. Of course, Burly and Muscles step out from their little desk cocoon with a whole lot of ego and cheap cologne wafting my way. One's hand hovers near his taser, the other plants himself in my path.
"Ma'am, I need you to return to the desk," says the broader one, Burly.
I don't slow my stride, and Muscles gets ahead of me, holding out an arm to block my path. "Ma'am, you'll need to come with us—"
With a flick of my finger, all three of them—the receptionist and both security guards—go flying backward, pinned to the nearest wall like butterflies to a corkboard. The receptionist’s mouth opens for a shrill scream—so I gag them all with air.
No one wants to listen to high-pitched shrieking. It's murder, but for ears.
Their bodies struggle uselessly against my binding, arms splayed wide, feet dangling inches above the floor.
In about ten minutes, they'll be free again. Maybe mildly traumatized, but I'm sure they'll get over it one day.
Someone screams at the meager display of power and people scatter across the lobby like fleeing rats. A woman yanks her child close, shielding his eyes.
I don't have time for any of their bullshit. If I don't find Grace soon, the Lycan King's going to rampage all over this city. And if he doesthat…
No. Better not to think about it. The moment any of this reachestheirears, my precious peace is going to become a distant memory for the next few centuries. Do you have any idea how hard it is to escape the yoke of Divinity?
Almost impossible, okay? It involves almost five hundred years of bribes, dirty little secrets, and a whole ass pirate fleet.
People stay far away from me as I approach the elevators. The ignorant few who reach the lobby give me a curious look as they exit, while everyone watching probably has a mild heart attack.
Like I'm just indiscriminately attacking people or something.
Humans are such silly little creatures, but I get it. They're shockingly fragile.
Like a certain Grace.
I jab my index finger against the elevator "close door" button repeatedly, not caring if I look like an impatient lunatic. The doors finally slide shut.
Ascent begins with a mechanical groan. I cross my arms and tap my foot against the floor, watching the numbers crawl upward. Six more floors until I reach Grace's room.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the notification banner.
Divinity Connect: 3 new messages
Oh, for fuck's sake.
I tap on the notification, knowing I'll regret it. The sleek black interface of the app opens up, showing the group chat I muted years ago.
Unfortunately, muting doesn't work when they specifically tag you.
