62.2

“We always went through a mediator from the Fae King’s court,” I said. “And we never once rescued someone who made a bad bargain.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“We were advocating for their families,” I said with a sigh. “It’s one thing to sell a thousand years of your own labor for some frivolous reason, but we couldn’t allow our villagers to trade living people without their consent.”

The bartender returned with two tumblers and six bottles, each containing brightly colored liquids. He tapped on their metal lids, releasing puffs of air that covered the glass in ice. I reached into Griff’s pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped it on a reader, making it beep.

As the satyr left to serve a green-skinned faerie, Griff visibly sagged. “When I signed away my first-born, I never thought I would find a mate.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Life in my old pack was brutal. Having a mate meant having a weakness.” He reached for the bottle containing the indigo-colored drink, flipped its lid, and poured a