The casual cruelty in her tone makes something dark and violent unfurl in my chest.
“I beg your pardon?” I say, stepping closer to the group. My voice comes out colder than I intended, with an edge that makes all three fey straighten slightly.
“Oh, did he not tell you?” Lady Morwenna’s smile sharpens. “About his former... occupation? How deliciously scandalous. Though I suppose humans have different standards about such things.”
The other two fey titter appreciatively, and I feel my control start to slip.
“Jack,” Dyfri says quietly, his hand touching my arm. “We should...”
“No,” I say, not taking my eyes off Lady Morwenna. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
I step fully into the group’s space, using every inch of my height to loom over them. The effect is gratifying. All three take an involuntary step back.
“See, I was under the impression that we were guests at a diplomatic function,” I continue, my voice dropping to the sort of quiet intensity that used to send bullies running at Harrow. “The sort of event where civilised people engage in polite conversation. But apparently, some people have confused this with a school playground.”
Lady Morwenna’s eyes narrow. “I hardly think...”
“Because that’s the only explanation I can think of for a grown woman making snide comments about my husband’s past where I can hear them,” I interrupt. “Unless you’re deliberately trying to insult me. In which case, I’d appreciate you being direct about it instead of hiding behind passive-aggressive innuendo.”
The temperature around us seems to drop several degrees. I’m vaguely aware that other conversations have started to quiet, that we’re drawing attention.
“Your consort was a whore,” Lady Morwenna snaps, her composure finally cracking. “A pretty little thing who warmed beds for anyone who asked. Perhaps you should know exactly what sort of creature you’ve married.”
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
“Jack,” Dyfri says again, more urgently this time. “We need to leave.”
But I’m not done. Not even close.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say conversationally. “I should know exactly what sort of person I’ve married.”
I turn to look at Dyfri, letting warmth flood my voice. “I married someone who survived whatever hell drove him to that situation. Someone who’s brave enough to start overin a foreign world, intelligent enough to navigate complex political negotiations, and decent enough to help save my government’s arse this morning even though he had no obligation to do so.”
I turn back to Lady Morwenna, and this time I don’t bother hiding the fury in my expression.
“You, on the other hand, appear to be the sort of person who thinks someone’s worst moments define them. The sort who takes pleasure in other people’s pain. Which tells me everything I need to know about your character.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Lady Morwenna’s face has gone white with shock and what might be apocalyptic outrage.
“Jack,” Dyfri whispers, and when I look at him, his eyes are wide with something very close to panic. “We have to go. Now.”
This time I listen. I offer Lady Morwenna a coldly polite nod, take Dyfri’s arm, and start walking toward the nearest exit.
We make it approximately ten steps before Dyfri veers sharply left, pulling me down a corridor I hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t stop until we’re in what appears to be a small antechamber, empty except for a few chairs and a window that looks out onto a moonlit garden.
“What the hell was that?” Dyfri demands, whirling to face me.
He’s magnificent in his fury, all sharp edges and barely controlled power. His carefully arranged hair has come slightly loose from our hasty exit, a few strands framing his face.
“That was me defending my husband,” I say simply.
“Defending me?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Jack, you have no idea what you’ve just done. Lady Morwenna is connected to half the noble houses in the realm. She will not take this insult lightly. She’ll get her revenge. She’ll tell the human media...”
“Tell them what? That someone stood up to her? Good.”
“That you’re married to a rhocyn!” The word comes out raw, painful. “That your consort is a whore who...”
“Stop.” The command comes out sharper than I intended, cutting through his self-recrimination. “Just stop.”
