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Ollie.
He picked up his glass.
And he threw it.
At Wolfgang’s face.
Cael frees half a musical laugh while sparkling pink runs down Wolfgang’s tan skin. Droplets cling in the snow-frosted mud shades of his hair. Fury ignites in his eyes, but he is as frozen as I am while the sing of stray shards hit his plate.
As calm and chipper as he has been through this entire ordeal, Ollie says, “Do remember you are in the presence of the dignified. Don’t speak so cheaply when discussing the girl.”
Markov rises from his chair, plants his palms on the table, and glowers down the length toward us. A growl laces his words as he says, “There’s something different about you, Dolly.”
“You mean other than the fact I have entirely outgrown that nickname?” Ollie—precious, innocent—lays a finger against his chin and ponders. “What do you suppose it could be?”
Markov reaches for a silver platter overflowing with some manner of beast and rips a limb clean off before settling back into his seat and tearing out a bite with his teeth. Not once does his gaze move from Ollie, and not once does Ollie flinch.
“It is not unacceptable,” Markov notes once he’s swallowed, and something in my chest twinges as Ollie drags his attention down to his empty plate. A moment of thick silence passes, then Ollie catches my eye and regains himself.
“Come now,” he murmurs. “Eat.”
Hesitant, I lift the piece of bread he gave me to my mouth and chew as Cael takes the helm, steering the conversation into matters I have no point of reference for. He remains calm, focused, taking bits and pieces of food and feeding them to Zylus, who flops around, looking anything but more deadly than the men on the other side of this long table.
From where I’m sitting, it’s all very choreographed. Words strung together with questions and commands and misconstrued ideas that make it difficult to follow the true intentions behind anything.
Politics.
Politics laced in distaste.
Not fun. Ugly, rather. And, yet, they hold more substance than a popularity contest. Regardless of the less than palatable opinions each party holds for the other, no one needs to clarify for me that these men are faithful to their people.
It’s that feeling mixed with the scrap of approval Markov offered earlier that makes me understand how painfully complicated it is, why we’re here, why Ollie hasn’t firmly shut his family out of his life and disregarded the way they’ve impacted him.
Right now, I am witnessing something wholly tragic.
But at least there are doughnuts.
Licking sugar off my lips, I don’t bother to explain the joyous flit in my chest when Cael lifts the rest of the doughnut platter closer to me, letting me take another without my having to ask for it or his having to break communication with Ollie’s stinky family.
Doughnuts and the royal cousin of mac and cheese for dinner almost make this entire event tolerable.
Unless, of course, someone tells me that we can invite ourselves over to Cael’s for dinner whenever, because he’s Ollie’s friend, and he’s my friend now, too. (We’re doughnut buddies.)
Someone needs to explain to me why we haven’t gotten the right enchantments worked out in order to have palace movie night, because I am coming up with a shocking zero logical reasons. If Willow has a problem with it, it doesn’t have to be Thursday Movie Night. We can have another movie night, or call it Excuse to Eat Palace Food Night instead.
Cael is the prince. He can do whatever he wants.
Seems a waste of some truly wonderful carbs.
Taking an improperly large bite for a dignified member, I reach for the tiniest and most beautiful little salt shaker the world has ever known and find Ollie watching me out of the corner of his eye.
Chin propped in his hand, he’s smiling.
At his chipmunk of a doughnut-gorging wife.
I swallow as gracefully as I can and feel cinnamon sugar clinging to my lips again.
My husband’s eyes lower, peruse, then glide away.
