“Tell me, young prince,” Valerius Crescentborn said, his voice as imposing as his ridiculous hat. “What can you do? Can you shift yet?”
Killian’s face lit up. “I can make my ears come out!”
“Show us.”
“Um...” Killian looked uncertain. “Mama says not at dinner.”
“Surely for us you can make an exception.”
Killian turned to me, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Mama?”
“Maybe later, when it’s less crowded,” I said gently. And when you’re not surrounded by people who’d use any sign of weakness against us, I didn’t add.
His face fell. “Okay.”
“What else can you do?” Valerius pressed.
“I can count to ten! Well, almost ten. I get stuck at nine.”
“I meant wolf abilities.”
“Oh.” Killian thought hard, his forehead scrunching up adorably. “I can howl!”
“That’s not quite what I...”
“Wanna hear?”
“Not at dinner, sweetheart,” I said quickly, imagining seventy werewolf royals subjected to my four-year-old’s enthusiastic but not exactly melodic howling.
Mortimer Goldridge leaned forward, his expression kind but his question pointed. “What are your expectations for the heir, Your Majesty?”
“The same as any parent,” I said carefully. “That he’s happy and healthy.”
“But surely you have hopes for his abilities?”
“I hope he grows into whoever he’s meant to be.”
“A diplomatic answer.”
I smiled. “I’m learning to speak royal. It’s like English but with more subtext and passive aggression.”
He actually chuckled. “You’re doing well.”
“I’m faking it until I make it. So far no one’s called my bluff.”
In a table near us, nobles were talking just loud enough to be heard. They weren’t even trying to be subtle, which was incredibly rude and stupid.
“I wonder if he’ll be strong enough to rule.”
“Half-breeds are usually weaker than pure bloods.”
Killian’s head turned toward them, his face confused. “What’s half-breed?”
My hand tightened on my fork. Breathe. Don’t stab anyone. That’s not queenly behavior. “Nothing important. Just grown-up words. Eat your dinner.”
“But they said-”
“They’re just talking. Ignore them.”
