“You’re right. I wouldn’t have appreciated it.” After another plaintive moan, I lower my hands to the lip of the desk and white-knuckle it with frustration. “I considered telling her about the prophecy—about how I wear the ring when I murder your vengeful niece—but I imagined, since you didn’t want to enmesh Ilya, that you wouldn’t want her involved either.”
“You’re right. I prefer none of my siblings find out about Mestyla until we understand what she’s after.”
I push away from the desk. “I’ll go ask Taytah to scrub Izolda’s memory?—”
“No.”
“She thinks we’re mates,” I hiss.
“You say you panicked, but what if it was the Cauldron that spoke through you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not its keeper. It doesn’t speakthroughme, ortome.”
“I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, Miss Ríhbiadh.”
“Interesting words coming from a man who swears by strategy.”
“We live in a world governed by magic. Is it so far-fetched to indulge in a little superstition?”
I thumb the rim of my collarbone, which stammers with troubled heartbeats. “Except, I don’t think you realize what this means.”
“That we must pretend to like one another?”
“Like?” I snort. “If only. We’ll need to feign being obsessed with each other. Have you never observed your sister and Aodhan?”
He shrugs. “Every now and then, we’ll lock eyes and throw out a compliment or two.”
I watch him closely, hunting for… I’m not entirely surewhatI’m looking for.
“Aodhan and Izolda don’t spend all their waking moments making eyes at each other.”
“Not even at the beginning?” I challenge him.
He purses his lips. “I was busy ruling a kingdom.”
“Well, allow me to educate you on all things mates.”
His expression flattens. No one enjoys being lectured, especially kings.
“Forgive me if I sound condescending, but I need you to realize how impossible this would be for us to pull off. Not only would we have to spend an absurd amount of time together, but we’d also need to pretend to enjoy it.”
When I grimace, the Ice King’s stance hardens like frost-kissed steel.
“And let’s not forget—mates can communicate without words. How do we fakethat, Vizosh?”
“Locking eyes will sell the illusion. We’ll just throw in a nod here and snort there.”
Intent on making him see reason, I go for stronger arguments. “Mates are extremely tactile.”
“Most Faeries aren’t.”
I sidle back against his desk and cross my arms. “Let me rephrase myself:matesareextremelytactile.”
“You just repeated the very same thing.”
“Because you didn’t seem to grasp it the first time. Mates—whatever their nature—have a devastating need to hold the other at all times and in all circumstances. Your sister knows that better than anyone.”
“You didn’t seem enthusiastic about being touched back on the ship.”
