The Ice King’s lids spasm. So does his jawbone.
“Would you prefer I head out now and spare you the embarrassment of my vulgarity?”
“Lucky for you, I give zero fucks what people think.”
“Yet you warn me to be on my best behavior?”
He stops walking and turns fully toward me. “Why are you angling for a fight?”
“Asks the man who just ordered me pitchers of blood,” I growl, just as Ilya’s voice rings against the stone.
“I almost demoted Salom to foot soldier earlier.”
Konstantin tugs his eyes off mine in slow motion, as though to make sure I absorbed every last ounce of his spite. “May I learn the reason for his narrowly-avoided demotion?”
“He interrupted a very pleasant rubdown to carp at me that I was late for a state dinner.”
After murdering Konstantin’s face with my striped glower a beat longer, I turn toward the affable brother, whose eyes crinkle at the sight of me, mostly with warmth but also with a touch of amusement.
As he kisses me on both cheeks, he murmurs, “Had a nice rubdown of your own I see?”
The eyebrow-waggle he shoots his brother leaves no doubt that he’s imputing my ragtag appearance to a torrid make-out session.
The tension that rigidifies Konstantin makes me grip his bicep and breathe out a tickled, “It’s hard to keep our hands off one another.”
The apple in Konstantin’s throat judders in time with the muscle beneath his sleeve. The one I’m currently digging my nails into extra-hard.
He doesn’t echo my sentiment, but he does unclasp his fingers from behind his back. “Let’s go.” As we climb the stairs behind Ilya, the Glacin monarch leans down to murmur, “I’d forgotten how mature twenty-four-year-olds could be.” His lips curve into a smile that is crisper than the air diving into the glass hub of the castle.
“You chose me, Vizosh.” My nails crease the fine wool of his suit. “I never chose you.”
My reminder kills his glee quicker than my father murders his enemies.
As we sled up the mountain, Konstantin keeps his stare locked on his land. He doesn’t even look at Ilya, who regales us with stories from his trip abroad—amatory escapades and all. I find myself laughing at many of his misadventures, while my fake husband-to-be sulks.
The Lodge, as well as the Serpent standing in wait, comes into view in no time. I sweep my face toward the bright sky, imagining his mate must be soaring above the woolen latticework of snow. How I wish Dádhi would’ve sent a funner pair to guard me, for Vance and Imogen are sterner than my fiancé. Which is undoubtedly the reason he picked them…
Ilya hops off the sleigh first, then holds out his hand to help me off. The instant my heels kiss the ground, he pulls away, then backs up to allow his sibling to climb down. Before I can take a step forward on my own, Konstantin’s palm claims the small of my back and guides me into the balmy lodge where attendants divest us of our cloaks.
I’m surprised to find Sofiya at the gathering—until I learn she accompanied her father, the Voshnan governor, because her mother has taken ill. Taken ill at the prospect of dining with me? Or a convenient excuse to push Sofiya into Konstantin’s arms?
Though Dimitri greets me with a kiss to the knuckles and a little bow of his head, I don’t miss the grimace straininghis mouth. Because I’m a Crow? Because of tonight’s getup? Because he feels like I stole the crown from his daughter? And I don’t mean Milana…
“Are you acclimating to Glace well, Miss Ríhbiadh?” His conviviality feels forced.
I start to answer when I catch Sofiya kissing Konstantin on the cheek. I’m aware they’re family by marriage, but if anyone kissed my father—save for blood relatives—my mother would have an absolute fit.
I almost say something. A mate would. Except the Ice King’s not my mate. Also, Glacins aren’t familiar with our brand of possessiveness, so I bear it with a grin. The other females settle on curtsies and the lone male spouse sketches a bow, just like Konstantin’s governors.
Never one to lie, I finally reply to Dimitri’s query of my acclimation with the truth: “It’s been challenging.” Vague but accurate.
Konstantin shoots me a sideways glance as sharp as a sword’s point.
“Evening,Dadulya,” Ilya says.
Dimitri’s face splits into a wide smile as he takes his grandson in his arms. “You’ve grown again. I swear it.”
Ilya laughs. “Or you’ve condensed.”
