The man I had seen in the photograph during Barabas’s briefing strode down the hallway toward us. He seemed bigger in person, taller, wider, with the type of raw strength that usually meant a nasty fight.

I turned to Desandra. “Do you want to see your father?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, defeat plain on her face.

“It does to me.”

“Then no. I don’t want to see him.”

Jarek Kral reached the door. This close the photograph really did him justice: same wavy brown hair, same large, roughly hewn face. His features could’ve been more refined, if they weren’t tinted with cruelty. I knew the type. He was the type of man who could explode over the smallest thing and the explosion would be violent.

The sneer was bigger in person as well.

He reached the door. “Move,” he said in an accented voice.

“Your daughter doesn’t want to visit now,” I said.

He stared at me with dark eyes under heavy lids, as if he just now realized I was blocking his way. “Who are you?

“You may call me Kate. I’m the Consort of the Beast Lord.”

“Step aside.” His eyes flashed green.

“No.”

Behind me someone gasped.

His voice boomed. “Who told you you can do this?”

And here we go, straight into the lake of drama without taking our clothes off first. “You did.” I pulled the contract from my pocket. “This document says I must serve your daughter’s best interests. She determined it’s in her best interests not to speak with you right now. This is your signature. It gives me all the authority I need.”

He snatched the paper from my hand and ripped it.

“I have another copy,” I said.

“I’ll rip out your throat!” he snarled.

Like father, like daughter. “If you try, you won’t live to see your grandchildren and my job will be done. I’ll get to go home early. So please do try. I miss my house already.”

His eyebrows came together. His upper lip trembled.

“An assault on the Consort will be treated as an act of war,” Derek said.

I reached behind me and put my hand on Slayer’s hilt. “This is your last warning. Do not attempt to enter.”

“What’s going on?” A man ran up the stairs. He was blond, tall, and muscular, with features that would make an angel proud—Desandra’s first husband, Radomil, from the Volkodavi pack. A woman followed him, slightly older than me, slender, with a wealth of golden hair braided back from her face.

“Stay out of this!” Jarek snarled. “You’ve done enough.”

Radomil shot back something in a language I didn’t understand. A torrent of words spilled from Jarek.

“You’re a pig!” Radomil snarled back in English. “A filthy pig. Leave Desandra alone!”

“Get out of my way!” Jarek roared.