Ilya continues, “If any of you have pure-blooded sons?—”
Sofiya cuts him off to ask, “Will you be imposing this heinous ritual in Glace, Kostya?”
For some reason, her use of his nickname grates on my nerves.
“No.” The word gusts across my temple with little volume but such resonance that it is heard by all.
I hinge my neck to check Konstantin’s expression—pitch-black with a side of pulsing. I sense he will have much to say about my miserable manners when he gets a moment alone with me.
“Thank Gods,” someone says, which has Sofiya snapping, “It’s our moral king who deserves our thanks, not our Gods.”
Could she sound any more territorial? It makes me want to bare my teeth—or rather, my talons—Mórrígan only knows why.
For decorum’s sake, I do neither, but I do wrap my bejeweled hand around my glass and lift it in a toast. “To my mate. May his principled morality survive my bestial influence.”
Konstantin’s lids tick as though he’s wrestling with his eyeballs to keep them from rolling toward the heavens and locking there for the duration of the evening.
After a beat, he scoops up his own glass. “To my beautiful wife.”
“—to be,” I chime in. Again. “You don’t want your people thinking we tied the knot without inviting them, now, do you?”
“Forgive me. I can’t seem to curb my eagerness to marry you.” He flings me a smile sharp enough to leave papercuts. “Where was I? Ah, yes… To you,beloved. May you never stop infusing my monotonous existence with your unpredictable ebullience.”
Ilya snorts, while I quirk a brow, since Konstantin looks about ready to strangle me each time myunpredictable ebulliencecomes out to play.
“Zah’jeen!” Ilya exclaims, before bumping his glass into mine, then reaching around me to cheers with his brother. While others unenthusiastically echo the traditional Glacin toast “To Life,” Ilya adds, “To Crows and Faeries and everything in between.”
He shoots back his wine as though it were vodka, then sets his empty glass beside his plate and digs into his crustacean mousse. I don’t know whether he shovels it down to make me feel better about having started eating before Konstantin, or if he does so to irritate his aunt. Whatever his reasons, I’m immensely grateful.
“This vintage is delicious.” Sofiya coos as she swirls her wine. “Why am I surprised though? You always spoil us with the very best, Kostya.”
Again with his fucking nickname. The glare I shoot her has Konstantin’s fingers trudging along my pinched shoulders and coming to wrap around my nape, probably to discourage me from tossing my wine into his whatever-in-law’s face.
“I’m glad it’s to your liking, Sofiya.” His fingers squeeze, relax, squeeze, as though he cannot make up his mind as to whether to strangle me or not. “I’ll be certain to have a few barrels delivered for your forthcoming nuptials.”
“My…what?” she squawks.
“Oh, forgive me.” Even though it’s surely not his intent, Konstantin’s persistent squeeze-release routine feels rather nice. “I thought the marriage contract had been ratified.”
“No.” Dimitri’s cheeks puff with annoyance. “The Nebban doesn’t have enough to offer.”
“What Nebban, Atsa?” Sofiya asks, her complexion warping from white to deep-pink.
“Someone who doesn’t deserve a girl like you, sweetheart.”
“Half-bloods earn wages equal to pure-bloods in Nebba nowadays,” Konstantin continues.
“I amnotmarrying off my daughter to someone beneath us. Though I thank you for your input,” Dimitri grits out, sounding anything but appreciative.
As daughter and father lapse into a quiet conversation, the appetizers are replaced with bowls of purple stew.
“Yum…borscht,” I murmur before adding, under my breath, “I’m regretting those cups of blood.”
Konstantin’s jaw twitches as he finally releases my neck to pick up his spoon.
“Do you think they put my bowl of birdseed outside?” I whisper.
I don’t miss Konstantin’s exasperated headshake as I prod the purple soup with my spoon. I take two sips of the treacly sludge before giving up and gifting it to Konstantin, who’s already polished off his bowl.
