His father had sat there for clan business. His father had expected Ian to sit there one day too. Conall sat there now, his black eyes watchful as Ian drew near. Conall, the younger brother who used to dog his steps, pleading for a bit of Ian’s attention. Ian had taught him to fight, tried to teach him the concept of justice. But he had failed at some point, for the reports Ian had heard from the refugee lycans that Lena sent to his home told a dark story of dominance, greed, and mismanagement.

Worse, if those tales were to be believed, Conall had also formed an alliance with the human gangs around inner-city London and now preyed on the weak and the poor.

Ian bit back a sneer of disgust as he stopped before the dais. Conall lounged upon the throne as if it were a bed, one long leg thrown over the armrest, his booted foot swinging an idle rhythm. Aye, his brother was strong, no doubt about it. Muscles dominated his frame, barely hidden beneath the modish clothes he wore. And he was without hesitation. But did he have the will? Ian would soon find out.

Do what is right. Take control of your clan.

His clan. The thought was smoke and seduction, whispering in his veins, creeping along his skin. He had lost everything because of his lycan heritage. And now his world had turned full circle.

Conall gave him a thin smile, his eyes calculating. “And so the prodigal son returns.” His black gaze narrowed. “After running amok in Highgate, it seems.”

Ian almost snorted. Is that what Conall would call it? And what of the were he’d captured? Ian wanted answers, but he had to be careful. Behind him came the scent of Daisy. He ignored it. It was too easy to lose control where she was concerned. Damn it all, he hated having his weakness so close at hand. Considering his options, he realized he’d have to taunt Conall just enough to show he did not care, but not enough to challenge him. Wonderful.

“Conall,” he said by way of greeting.

His brother snarled. In an instant, he was before Ian, his hand wrapped about Ian’s throat. “Pardon?”

Claws sank into Ian’s neck. The faint sound of Daisy’s muffled distress stayed his tongue. Easy, lass. Ian met his brother’s eyes. “Ranulf,” he corrected with false ease.

Sharp teeth flashed as Conall smiled. “Better.” He let Ian go with a shake.

Ian stood steady.

Conall strolled about him, circling. “What are you doing mucking about in my territory, brother?”

Ian cut him a glance. Did Conall think he’d make excuses? “Looking for the mad werewolf, brother.”

“Ah, yes, this mythical werewolf that none of my men have seen hide nor hair of.”

Ian gave a humorless snort. “So then what was it you captured last night?”

Conall stopped. His dark brows lifted in an expression much like Ian’s. “I captured nothing. Though I did hear that my brother has now been connected with two ‘wild dog’ attacks.”

For a cold second, Ian couldn’t answer. He hadn’t expected Conall to deny having the were. It did not make sense. Worse, there was something in his brother’s tone that gave him pause. They’d grown so far apart that Ian could no longer be sure if Conall was lying or not. And that concerned him greatly.

“Are you trying to tell me that I imagined fighting that were last night? Or the fact that your men took it down with Ranulf darts just moments before they tagged me?”

Conall laughed shortly. “I’ve no idea what you’ve imagined.”

Ian reached into his trouser pocket. “Tell me then, did I imagine this?” He tossed the silver dart he’d kept onto the floor where it clattered against the black marble and then spun about in indolent fashion.

From the grumbling that erupted around the room, Ian knew the lycans all recognized the dart.

Conall stopped and turned on his heel. He glanced at it before looking back at Ian. Not a shade of emotion on his brother’s face. Ian had to commend him for that.

“What is it I am supposed to be seeing?” Conall said, still not bothering to look at the dart.

Ian smiled thinly. “Right. I’ll play. That there, dear brother mine, is a Ranulf hunting dart. One of four that found its way into my chest last night,” Ian snapped. “After the were that was attacking me received his fair share of darts.”

“And yet, no clan members of mine were out hunting weres last night.” Conall turned to Lyall. “Or am I mistaken?”

Amusement lit Lyall’s expression. “No, Sire.” His cold amber gaze settled on Ian for a moment. “Nor would a member of my guard take down MacRanulf without just cause.”

Anger turned Ian’s blood hot. Lyall, the bastard, would say anything Conall asked him too. Being a lycan, Lyall’s age did not show, but he was older than all of them and had been beta to Ian’s father. Back then, Lyall had been like an uncle to Ian, caring for him and his family in all ways. Until Ian had refused the throne. Then Lyall turned from him and swore loyalty only to Conall.

Conall strolled away from the dart. “D’ye care to call Lyall a liar then?”

Yes. “I’ve no wish to call him anything.” Other than a canny little lickspittle.

If Conall and Lyall insisted on lying, there was nothing Ian could do about it. He yearned to shove the stickpin he’d found in Bethnal Green under Conall’s nose and demand an explanation, but it would be tantamount to a challenge. So he glanced at the crowd of lycan assembled in court instead. Some were familiar; some were new. All were richly dressed. Yet none of them had been seen among Ian’s human familiars. What had gone on here? Had Conall isolated them so much from human society? It was a dangerous thing, for lycans needed human contact to stay sane. “Have ye all missed the stench of werewolf trailing all over our city?” Ian asked.

“My city,” Conall said, a fair amount of warning coloring his words.

“Our city,” Ian retorted. “Or is Ranulf no longer a clan?”

A shift went through the crowd, uneasiness tightening the air and tingeing it sour. These lycan were too used to subservience. Ian could see it in their stance, the way they looked to Conall not with respect but hesitation and fear.

“The question should be why ye care, brother.” Conall came toe to toe with him, and Ian smelled blood on his breath. “You left the clan long ago. You’re in no position to ask questions. That I gave you leave to even live in this city should have you bowing in gratitude.”

“The werewolf’s existence is a danger to every man, not just the clan,” Ian said. “He needs to be put down before he exposes us and hurts others.”

“There you go again with your speeches.” Conall strolled around Ian. “A sorry way to get attention.” Conall rubbed his jaw, and for a moment, he looked so like their father that Ian felt a stab of grief. “Which sets me wondering… given as you’re the only lycan claiming to have seen this wolf, well, brother, perhaps you are the one doing these deeds.”

Ian laughed. He could not contain it. “Do I look like a were?” Once a man shifted fully into a wolf, he was done for. It was the warning hammered into every lycan’s brain from the time they were weaned.

“No,” Conall admitted, holding the irritating, smug smile that had Ian itching to swipe it off. “But then one needn’t be fully changed to inflict good damage, aye?” His dark eyes narrowed. “I hear ye took Alan’s head with one swipe.”

If Alan was the lycan lying dead in his front hall, then yes he had. And he’d do it again. The bastard had been poised to launch a killing blow on Ian.

Conall’s claws tore free. One gleaming tip touched the corner of Ian’s right eye, pushing in just enough to hurt. “After all, we have claws too, don’t we?”

Ian stared at his brother. “Enough. Why do you persist in claiming there is no were? Bloody hell, man, the beast has attacked at least five humans. Will you disgrace your own throne—”

He saw Conall make the decision to move a second before he acted. The hit took Ian hard in the solar plexus. Ian doubled over, the urge to strike back setting his claws free. He’d been stupid to fall for Conall’s baiting. Not with Daisy in the same room with him. So far, she’d stayed quiet. He’d kiss her for it later. But he would not make the mistake of thinking Conall wasn’t aware of her.

“You do not question The Ranulf,” Conall snarled. “You do as you are told.”

Ian sucked in a hard breath. “I wasn’t aware that you were telling me anything, Ranulf.” Christ, man, keep your mouth shut.

Another blow caught him in the temple. He saw stars.

“Had enough?”

No, hit me again so I can rip your throat out. Ian bit his lip hard to keep his mouth shut and stayed bent over.

Conall’s boots came to view. “Your talk comes close to sedition, Ian. Verra close.” Conall leaned down to look Ian in the eye, and his voice went soft with menace. “An’ I’m fair aching to see you cross that line and have this business done with.”

They stared at each other when a sweet feminine voice broke their stalemate. “I saw the beast.”

Ian ground his teeth as he cursed six ways to Sunday.

All eyes turned to Daisy. “Ah, that is, I saw the beast, sir,” she corrected.

Bloody woman. His claws punched free, at the ready, for no one was touching her. No one.

Daisy ought to have kept quiet, but seeing Conall lay his fists into Northrup had made her stomach turn and inflamed her sense of justice. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think better of doing so.

Dark eyes looked her over, and she found herself quailing.

“And who is this?” Conall asked.

“Mrs. Craigmore of Mayfair.” Daisy inclined her head. She had no desire to offer her given name to this brute. “I was witness to the second killings.” Damn. How did one address a lycan king? “Your Highness.”

A lock of hair fell across the lycan leader’s brow as he tilted his head and studied her. Northrup’s brother did not wear his hair long. Did he not, then, officially mourn his father’s death?

“Yet you survived?” He sounded dubious.

“By mere chance,” she said. “But I saw the beast before I blacked out. His movements were odd, like a wolf’s yet also like a man’s.”

A stir went through the crowd. Daisy hadn’t known what to expect when she’d entered the court of the lycans. These people looked just like any other. But their scent was wild, calling to mind grasses and windswept meadows. They did not smell human. The notion made her shiver.

Northrup stood like a statue, not acknowledging her, but she saw the subtle flare of irritation in his eyes as he stared blindly forward. She felt another qualm of guilt. She hadn’t meant to interfere.

Surprisingly, Conall’s voice gentled. “And have you seen my brother and this werewolf at the same time?”

“Well…” Daisy paused. “No…”

The lycan king smiled pleasantly. “Then how do you know it is not he?”

“They do not have the same scent,” she said without hesitation, but her heart was pounding. Did they all truly believe Northrup could do these deeds? She remembered the wild look in Ian’s eyes just before he attacked her and she swallowed hard. It would be easy to place the blame upon his head. Perhaps that was what his brother had wanted all along. She didn’t understand their ways and feared that she was in over her head.

Each step of Conall’s booted feet sounded in the quiet of the hall. She clenched her hands as he came before her. His face was broader than Northrup’s and not quite as refined. He had coal-black eyes, but they shared the same auburn hair color. He was a touch shorter than Northrup and a bit stockier. Certainly he did not possess the same air of natural grace that Northrup exuded. For all of that, it still unnerved Daisy to look into a face so like Northrup’s, yet not.

Conall studied her with equal scrutiny. “What do you know of scents, little human?”

“Enough to know that Northrup doesn’t smell like the beast that accosted me.”

Conall waved an indolent hand. “I’m thinking you seek to protect your man.”

“I am not!” She was. And from the gleam in his eyes, the lycan knew it.

“The sense of smell is a very powerful tool, I will give you that.” His nostrils flared a bit as he drew in her scent. The very idea caused a ripple of disquiet along her skin, as if she were being considered for his evening meal. “She smells lovely,” Conall said to Ian without taking his eyes from her. “Like spring flowers.”

Northrup’s expression was almost bored. “Aye.”

Conall took a step closer to her, and Daisy caught the scent of him as well, of wet grass and turned earth. Not unpleasant, but nothing like the heady fragrance of Northrup. Conall’s dark eyes roamed over Daisy. Frank appreciation flared in their depths.

“Delicious. Is she yours?” he asked Northrup as his gaze strayed to Daisy’s bosom.

“No.” The word was so flat and lifeless that she might have been a piece of misplaced furniture.

The heat of Conall’s body warmed her arms, and Daisy swallowed down her urge to step back. His lilting voice, holding more of the Highlands than did his brother’s, rumbled in her ear. “D’ye hear him, lass? For all your defense of him, he won’t even claim you.” He ran a callused thumb over her cheek, and she fought not to wrench her head away. “Does it no’ shame you to discover that your man is a coward?”

Northrup stood tall and still in the middle of the court. She shouldn’t speak. She knew it was stupid to do so, but seeing Northrup surrounded by jeering fools who used the strength of their numbers to intimidate made her blood boil. “Nothing about Northrup shames me.”