She was an innocent third party caught up in this bullshit just like he was.

Exhaling in a burst, he hung his head. It took him a couple of heartbeats before he was under any semblance of control. “I’m sorry.”

At that, her head jerked up to level, and for a moment, especially as that scent of hers reached him, he wished he could see her eyes.

What shape were they? What did her lashes look like? Were the irises as dark as his—

Why the fuck was he thinking like this?

Breaking off from her, he started walking around. “I gotta get out of here. Time is running out.”

As her head tilted to the side in inquiry, he thought, no. Not gonna go there.

He nodded down at the tray. “If you want to leave the food, I’ll flush it down the toilet so that you don’t get in trouble for not feeding me.”

And that was when she spoke: “It is not poisoned.”

For absolutely no good reason, those four run-of-the-mill words stopped him dead. Her voice was deeper than he had expected; all her subservience seemed better paired with some high-octave, super-feminine tone. And there was a husky undertone . . . which made him think about sex.

Raw sex. The kind that left females hoarse from calling out the name of their lover.

iAm blinked.

All at once, he had the urge to cover his naked body. Which was kind of bullshit, wasn’t it. He’d known she was a female all along and it wasn’t like he’d ever had any clothes on in front of her.

Giving in to the impulse, he went over behind the screen, to the stack of towels that had been placed by the inset tub. As he wrapped one around his hips, he felt like apologizing for ever having aired his junk at all.

When he came back around, she was sampling the soup and the bread again.

“You can stop,” he said. “I’m not going to eat.”

“Why?”

Again, with that voice. Even on only one word this time.

“I gotta get out of here,” he muttered. For a whole fucking lot of reasons. “I have to get out.”

“Does something await you?”

He thought of Trez and Selena. “Just death. You know, no big fucking deal or anything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I gotta talk to s’Ex. That’s what I need to do. Did you tell him?”

Although it wasn’t as if she had any pull.

“Who is dying?”

“Nothing. No one. Nobody—”

“Who is passing? Not your brother?”

“Look, I need you to go. And not come back unless you’re bringing s’Ex with you.”

“Who.”

Annnnnd he stopped again. Maids were never imperious, but that was what she sounded like. Then again, his emotions were running so goddamn high, he was capable of reading into just about anything right now—and jumping to the wrong conclusion.

“I came back here for help, okay.” He threw up his hands. “s’Ex told me he would get me into the palace so I could look through the healers’ texts.”

“For whom?”

“My brother’s mate.”

The maid’s head came up sharply. “He is to mate the Princess here, though, no? I heard that he is the Anointed One.”

“He fell in love.” iAm shrugged. “It happens. Or so I’ve heard.”

“And she is the one who is dying?”

“She’s not doing well.”

As he resumed his prowling, he could feel the eyes behind that mesh track him. “So that’s why I need to get out. My brother needs my help.”

“He is in mourning. The executioner.”

iAm glanced over, and then resumed stalking the cell. “Yeah. I know, but he had enough free rein to meet me on the outside. Shorter trip now that I’m in the palace itself.”

“But that is the issue. He left and no one knew where he had gone. The palace wanted him to participate. The palace . . . insisted that he attend to the Queen. He is with her now.”

Just his luck. “There are breaks in the rituals, though, aren’t there? Can you catch him then?”

“Well . . . maybe I can take you to the texts?”

iAm cranked his head around slowly. “What did you say?”

Longest. Elevator. Ride. Of. His. Life.

As Trez stood next to Selena in a glass-walled torture chamber, he was resolutely facing the closed doors—and praying for some kind of Dr. Who time warp thingy that had him stepping out of the goddamn thing rightfuckingnow.

Eyeballs locked on the glowing line of numbers above the chrome doors, he wanted to vomit.

L . . . 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50.

“44” had yet to light up because they were in the screaming-fast, liver-in-your-loafer, express part of the joyride.

“Oh, you should look out here,” Selena said, pivoting toward the all-access pass to vertigo. “This is so much fun!”

A quick glance over his shoulder and he nearly hurled. His beautiful queen had not just gone over to the glass, but put her palms on it and leaned into the ever-higher view.

Trez snapped back around. “Almost there. We’re almost at the top.”

“Can we go down and come up again? I wonder what the descent is like!”

Actually, maybe they should head back to the lobby. He was fairly sure he’d left his manhood there when this rocket ride had ignited.

“Trez!” Tap, tap, tap on his forearm. “Look at this.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s incredible. Yeah. Abso.”

They were never getting to the four hundred and forty-fourth floor. Much less level fifteen thousand gabillion where the cocksucking restaurant was.

McDonald’s, he thought. Why couldn’t she have wanted Mickey D’s. Or Pizza Hut. Taco Hell—

Beep!

At the sound, he braced himself for a Die Hard moment where some mastermind in a bespoke English suit blew up the rooftop.

Nope. Beep! Forty-five. Beep! Forty-six.

And more good news came as the bum rush to the heavens slowed.

“Trez?”

“Mmm?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just really psyched for dinner. Oh, my God, I can’t wait to get there.”

She tucked her arm through his and leaned her head against his triceps. “You really know how to treat a female.”

Damn right he did. For example, he was very clear that it would be considered highly unromantic to go fetal and suck your thumb because you were nut-less when it came to heights.

Bing! And the doors opened.

Thank you, baby Jesus, to use a Butch phrase.

Now, he told himself, get your shit together, you sack-less wonder, and focus on your female.

Flashing his queen a Cary Grant plus fangs, he escorted Selena off the deathtrap and into a black marble lobby that for a split second took him back to his nightmare at the s’Hisbe: so much glossy black stone on the floors, walls, and ceiling, with lights inset up high—and nothing else.

“Trez?”

Shaking himself, he smiled down at her. “You ready for this?”

“Oh, yes.”

A discreet black-on-black sign with an arrow indicated the way to the restaurant, but his keen senses of hearing and smell had already given him that information, thanks. As they started off, a human couple steamed toward them, the female’s high heels like the F-word being used with every step she took.

“. . . no reservation?” she hissed. “How could you not get us a reservation?”

The man next to her was staring straight ahead. Like you would if you were stuck next to a three-year-old on a bus.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get us a reservation. And we had to walk out like that. In front of all the other . . .”

As she continued to marching-band it to that theme song, the man’s eyes locked on Selena—and the poor bastard recoiled in awe as if a living angel had appeared in front of him.

After Trez pointed out to his inner bonded male that an appropriate entrée didn’t include Filet o’Fucktard, he realized that he, too, had failed to call ahead and lock down a time for a two-top. Shit. He’d totally forgotten to ask Fritz to make the damn call. And mind control worked on humans, including snotty maître d’s, but what it couldn’t fix was rank unavailability of empty seats.