I sat with my werefriend, careful not to push her too hard emotionally. Struggled to keep my voice light, my questions on business. But I could feel the cracks in her veneer, the way the title-hastily bestowed, within minutes of her sitting on the throne, as though Oleksander didn't trust her not to run-chafed around the edges of her psyche.
Queen Sharlotta turned from the office window she stared out of to meet my eyes, redressed in fresh clothing, though, to me, every inch the ruler the werenation needed. The large, wood paneled room seemed to want to swallow her, but she shone too bright to let it. I just hoped that remained the case. "Now we have confirmation of the mafia's involvement," she said, my Charlotte no matter what title held her in thrall, "we can locate Femke."