"Wolfsbane!?" Ian repeats, his black brows arching over his deep blue eyes, the Fae talisman he carries pulsing with barely suppressed emotion in the saffron corona that encircles his pupils. He stares at Dorian across the coffee table in our oceanside villa in Cabo San Lucas, crossing his burly arms over his broad chest. "You want me to sanction the use of wolfsbane?"
"Only in this circumstance," Dorian answers unobtrusively, squeezing my fingers laced with his just slightly in his nervousness. His sensuous lips tighten into a straight line. "If the Rényú have a hybrid army, this will be the simplest way to even the numbers, or potentially eliminate the likelihood of an assault."
