“In my defense, he tried to strangle me,” I say.
Ilya gapes.
I nod to Konstantin’s lip. “A sigil would reduce the inflammation.”
“Are you offering to heal me, Miss Ríhbiadh?”
I’m about to confess that I’d only make it worse, but sharing one’s flaws with a stranger is like handing them a weapon. Until I understand where Konstantin’s loyalties lie, I will pretend to be as formidable as my parents.
“You don’t want my magical blood anywhere near your mouth, Vizosh.”
His pupils shrink in the firelit pools of gray as he recognizes my evasion for the threat it is.
Ilya gapes some more, batting his lashes almost as aggressively as the Faerie female standing nearest us. The one who speaks in hushed tones with a woman who must be MilanaKorol, given her resemblance to Ilya and the twins—same flaxen hair, same limpid blue eyes, same spray of freckles over the nose and cheekbones.
“Though I’d love to hear the full story, I’m dying to learn one thing—how the Cauldron did you land a punch?” Like a needle, Ilya’s question pricks the bubble of tension that has ballooned around us. “I haven’t managed in years. Not even during our sparring matches. Were you invisible or something?”
“Or something…” Konstantin’s lips barely move over the murmur.
“Kostya, dearest.” The blonde, who I’m fully convinced must be Milana, since she wears a crown-like tiara, bustles up to us in a dress the same shade of cerulean as her irises. “I’ve seated my?—”
She gives me a cursory look at first, but then her attention catches on my feather tattoo and striped, violet stare, and her brow ruffles.
I stick out my hand politely. “You must be Milana Korol.”
She nods, not yet lifting her fingers to mine, as though uncertain whether I’m worth greeting. The instant I offer up my name, though, her hand pokes out of her wide sleeve and enfolds mine. “I’d heard you couldn’t make it.”
“Didn’t want to miss the party of the century. I have terrible FOMO.”
“…FOMO?” Milana repeats.
Ilya smirks. “That means ‘Fear Of Missing Out,’ Matsi. It’s an affliction that you, Izolda, and I suffer from.”
“Felicitations, Kostya.” The redhead with the bushy lashes pops out from behind Milana.
She tries to touch him, but he takes a step back.
“Thank you for coming, Sofiya.” His curt nod and aloofness snuffs out her delight.
Milana grabs the redhead’s arm. “Oh, look, it’s the new Lucin designer you love. Let’s go say hello.” Before Lashes has a chance to respond, Milana steers her toward Phoeppa, tossing a reproachful glare Konstantin’s way.
“Can’t believe Matsi’s still trying to matchmake you with her sister,” Ilya mutters under his breath.
Konstantin binds his hands behind his back. “I doubt Miss Ríhbiadh is interested in our family dynamics.”
“She’s a royal, Kostya. I’m sure people are trying to pair her up all the time.”
“Have youmetmy parents?” I reply with a smile that grows in intensity as I picture my father’s expression should anyoneattemptto matchmake me. “Not to mention I’m a Crow. We usually hold out for our true mate.”
Ilya tilts his head. “I heard you don’t all get one.”
“I believe we do. However, I also believe we don’t all manage to cross paths, and if they happen to be mortal…” I shrug, not giving voice to the rest of my sentence.
I doubt the ending’s lost on the Korol brothers. After all, they’re both Faeries. And, yes, they’re purelings, but even full-blooded Fae eventually expire.
Skies, I really hope Behati was lying about my mate’s mortality. Whether he dies soon or in eight centuries, the end result will be the same—it’ll gut me. My mood plummets like the temperature in Monteluce at sundown, and I shudder.
“Anyway…” I pull away from Ilya. “Thank you for the sleigh ride.”
