That’s a lot of syllables. French syllables. At a party hosted by the wife of a French mafia king.
I pick one up, because refusing food is apparently also a social faux pas, and smile at a nearby cluster of noble women who are watching me with barely concealed interest. “These are delicious,” I say. “The, um. The co-quil-lays.”
Silence.
One woman’s eyebrow arches so high it nearly disappears into her hairline.
“I believe,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension, “it’s pronounced co-KEEY Saint-ZHAHK.”
My face flames.
“Of course. I—”
“Actually, I rather liked her pronunciation.”
The voice is warm. Golden. Like sunlight made audible.
A man materializes beside me—where did he even come from?—and the smile he gives the group is dazzling. Genuinely dazzling. Golden hair, golden skin, a face that belongs on currency or cathedral ceilings. In direct light, he’d overexpose. Too bright. Too much.
Skye Wyndham. King of the West.
“Co-quil-lays.” He picks up one of the canapés and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, I think that’s how I’ll say it from now on. We’re not native French speakers, after all. Why should we twist our tongues into pretzels?”
He turns to the cluster of women.
And smiles.
It’s the kind of smile that makes you think of sunshine and warm beaches and friendly golden retrievers, right up until you notice his eyes. His eyes are steel. Cold. The smile of a man who could break every bone in your body and make it look like an accident.
“Don’t you all agree?”
The women’s faces contort like they’ve bitten into something rotten.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Pronunciation isn’t important.”
“Not important at all, ha ha ha.”
The laughter is painful. Forced. Like glass being ground between teeth.
Skye winks at me—actually winks—and murmurs, “Lovely party, by the way.”
“I—thank you—”
But he’s already gone. Vanished into the crowd like morning mist.
I stand there, still holding my co-quil-lay, trying to process what just happened.
Two kings. Two rescues.
Still a coincidence,I tell myself firmly.They’re kings. They’re at a cross-territory function. Of course they’d mingle with the hostess. That’s just...politics. Diplomacy. Normal diplomatic things that normal diplomats do.
Right.
Totally normal.
Nothing to see here.
