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But, naturally, my human knowledge thus far has been infamously unreliable.
But…with the way Markov’s eyes have narrowed…
Nah. I’m totally overthinking things.
As I sit, I take passing stock of the fact there are only three mountain men here. Phew. Or not phew, because I think that means I’m an adorable surprise. To comfort myself, I survey the food.
Meats beside puddings. Gravy in glass boats. Literal, elegant, detailed glass boats with tiny oars and tiny matching ladles. Pitchers and glasses of sparkling pink drinks. Breads. Pastries.
Is that mac and cheese? Or just a cheesy pasta?
Either way, amazing.
So this is a formal dinner with royalty.
I’ve but one tiny fork and but one tiny spoon. And four different knives, varying in size from itty bitty to could kill a goat. Well. That’s…interesting.
“I was not aware—” Markov’s swear is several times harsher than his speaking voice, which sounds about as gentle as slamming two rocks together. “—were invited.”
My heart drops into the pit of my stomach, and I go ice still. Mute. My thoughts jumble, and I know Ollie isn’t weak. I knew his brothers had to be truly awful to have hurt him as deeply as they have. But…calling me that word as the first thing out of his mouth?
It’s shocking that anyone who professes to be any kind of royalty is so crass.
The fae truly mustn’t have any guidelines where etiquette is concerned.
Ollie laughs as he takes a seat beside me, and it is so painfully bright I can hardly breathe. “Come on, Mark. Leave the jokes to me. You use that one every time we meet, and it gets old even if we only see each other every, what? How long has it been?”
I force my gaze toward Markov and find the barest hint of a cruel smile tipping the narrow line of his thin lips. “Five years. We do these legal reunions every five years.”
“And here I thought relationships for the fae didn’t erode quite so dramatically.” Ollie reaches for a roll of bread, tears a piece off, smiles with venom. “Couldn’t we make it ten?”
One of Ollie’s other brothers, the less stocky of the two, chuckles. Roughly. Like a rock tumbler on its first round.
I can barely force down a swallow.
Ollie, still shining as though the tension in the room isn’t suffocating, casts a flippant finger toward his stockier brother. “Wolfgang.” Then to the other. “Brogan.”
Brogan rubs a scar that runs clean across his eye to his lip, and now that I’ve experienced the healing powers of the fae personally, I wonder—with some apprehension—how in the world he got it.
“Whose service are you in today?” he asks, dark gray eyes fixed on me, pooling with something akin to morbid curiosity.
In the pit of my stomach, my heart swirls with the acid, and…I…I hate them. I think I sincerely hate them.
This is how they greet their brother after five years? By highlighting how Ollie has let people use him, for decades, just so he could feel like less of a burden?
I’m nauseated.
Ollie hands the piece of bread to me. “Please don’t imply my presence here is anything more than a formality in order to keep you lot from hunting me down in my quiet abodes and causing trouble for my sweet humans.”
Markov’s sausage fingers crack as they flex and reach for his glass. The delicate stem appears much too frail in his fingers. “Do you intend that as a reprimand, brother?”
“If you take it as one, wouldn’t that speak more of your thoughts than mine?” Ollie tears off another piece of his bread, this time popping it in his mouth.
Wolfgang snarls. “Who’s the girl? If she’s been allowed to join you, she must be of importance. We had not heard of any princesses appointed within this domain, nor would we assume Cael the sort to share. Let’s stop these stupid games. Everyone in this room can smell you on h—”
Glass breaks.
It takes my frazzled mind a full three seconds to compute what just happened.
