“Fine. Moya it’ll be then. I realize we aren’t lawfully wed yet, but it’s only a matter of hours. You’re welcome to call me Moyo.”
“I will never call you Husband,” I say between clenched teeth. “And don’t you fucking dare call me Wife.” My abrasive tone finally flattens his simper.
Dante’s gaze tapers. “You’re fearless, aren’t you? I used to find that trait admirable, but now I see it for what it makes you—childish.”
The knot of my arms tightens at his slight. “And yet you still wish to marry me . . . I was aware you’d lost your moral compass the day you stuck a bloodied crown on your brow, but I hadn’t realized you’d shed your mind along with it. I may accept to be unbound, but I will never accept to marry you.”
The bones in Dante’s face seem to realign beneath his skin, sharpening his features. “You will accept.”
“Did Bronwen feed you some prophecy that I would say yes? Because if that’s the case, I’ve another prophecy for you. One that doesn’t end well for you, but ends superbly for me.”
“Prophecies are for fools.”
Such an ingrate. Why the Cauldron am I still expecting appreciation? Especially since I’ve every intention of taking back the sunray crown. “A prophecy got you on the throne.”
“Lore’s weakness for his little ‘curse-breaker’ got me on the throne. He would’ve remained a shadow king had I run you through with my blade in Xema Rossi’s grove.”
“So that was your plan?”
He works his jaw from side to side as though chewing on something—probably the answer to my question. He must sense I’m one millisecond away from plucking the sword from his scabbard and going to town on his neck because he takes a step back.
“I imagined you and he would’ve gotten married the day Marco fell, but Ríhbiadh is a master manipulator, isn’t he?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Striking an alliance with King Vladimir of Shabbe with the pretense that he’d marry his daughter Alyona so that the day he finally made his move on you, you’d be none the wiser of his intent.”
I fold my arms even tighter. “His intent?”
“To marry you for your magic.” Dante releases a snort. “Crows are such crafty creatures.”
The only thing I retain from all Dante has just spewed is that Bronwen has failed to inform her nephew that Lore is my mate. Otherwise, Dante would know that the Crow King isn’t after my magic.
How interesting that you kept that to yourself, Bronwen.
In a syrupy tone, I make a suggestion that is evidently not one at all. “Or perhaps Lore has enough magic of his own that he doesn’t feel the need to exploit mine?”
My attempt to incinerate Dante’s ego backfires when the Faerie King smiles. Fuckingsmiles. “Here I thought you acted naïve to trick people, but it’s not an act, is it?”
I scowl. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the Crimson Crow kept you in the dark.” Dante runs the tip of his tongue over his teeth as though savoring the moment.
I bet he is. “How about you enlighten me, Maezza?”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Fal.”
I want to yell at him to stop using my nickname but keep quiet to hear his grand admission.
“Spouses—be they human or other—can manipulate their Shabbin wives’ blood magic.”
Three
Spouses can manipulate their Shabbin wives’ blood magic?
Dante’s words roll through my mind like small rocks on a shore, jagged edges scraping my skull, leaving gashes behind. I trust Lore. Dante’s reveal doesn’t change that. Nevertheless, I’m a little upset and a lot hurt that I had to learn this great secret from the Faerie King.
Why, Lore? Why wouldn’t you share this with me?
