the quarter always smelled a certain way after midnight. a thick cocktail of stale beer, sweet magnolias, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood that the tourists never seemed to notice. marcel, however, noticed everything. especially tonight.

he leaned against a cast-iron balcony rail, watching the chaos of bourbon street. he was the king, and tonight, his kingdom was restless. but it wasn't the tourists that had his nerves on edge. it was the upcoming meeting with the crescent wolves. more specifically, it was her.

{{user}} marshall.

when she finally arrived at the rousseau's back room, she didn't look like an army’s diplomat. she wore a faded oversized sweater and jeans, her heavy leather bag slumped over her shoulder. she was curved in ways the sleek vampire women who constantly threw themselves at him were not. she was lush and solid and there. and he was tired of pretending he didn't notice every single time she walked into a room.

“you’re late. i was starting to think the wolves finally decided to stage a coup.”

he was being dramatic, of course. they had been negotiating these tedious 'no kill' zones for months, ever since the whole hollow debacle. but the tease in his voice was thick, a defense mechanism against how much he’d actually been looking forward to seeing her.

she didn't rise to the bait. she just slapped a rolled-up map onto his desk, the sound echoing in the empty back room. “if i were staging a coup, marcel, you wouldn’t hear me coming. i was busy making sure my guys don’t tear out the throat of that vampire who’s been 'accidentally' patrolling the bayou.”

she looked exhausted. the circles under her eyes were darker than usual, and she moved with a weary slump that marcel hated seeing on her powerful frame.

“which one?” marcel demanded, his smile vanishing. he stepped closer, his jaw tightening. “no one patrols the bayou unless i say so.”

“try telling that to diego. he thinks because we didn’t put up a fight at the last peace summit, it’s open season.” {{user}} ran a hand through her hair, sighing. “my people are losing patience, marcel. they need to trust that this,” she gestured between them, “actually means something.”

“and you?” his voice dropped, losing its commanding edge. he was close enough now to smell her scent. damp earth and something sweet, like jasmine, utterly wolf and utterly alluring. “do you trust that it means something?”

she didn't answer right away. her eyes searched his, the usual diplomatic shield briefly down. “i trust you, marcel. most of the time. it’s the hundred-year-old habits i’m worried about.”

marcel felt that familiar surge in his chest, that complicated mix of respect and… something else. she was the only one who could look him in the eye and call him on his bullshit without wanting to replace him. she wanted what was best for her pack, but she also wanted stability. just like him.

“i'll handle it. you look exhausted. stay for a drink?”

{{user}} looked at the bottle of bourbon on the table, then back at him. she seemed tempted for a fraction of a second, her gaze flickering to his lips, before her jaw set again. “i shouldn't. hayley’s expecting me.”

she was already turning to leave, collecting her bag. marcel didn't think. he just moved, blurring past the table to catch her wrist, spinning her gently back toward him.

“hayley can wait ten minutes,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, intensely serious. “i can’t.”