“I was vexed. My ego has made a full recovery.”
A shadow of amusement grazes his lips. “Glad to hear it.”
“How are you so calm right now?”
“I just feel like my odds of dismemberment by a member of your family have dropped significantly now thatyoubound us in magical matrimony instead of me. Plus, I summoned you here with the objective of marriage, remember?” A blade of evening sun carves across his face, illuminating his irises that carry the same pearlescence as the silver embroidery adorning the standing collar of his military suit, and the same icy sheen as the platinum buttons sealing the jacket to his chest.
I close my eyes, squeeze them tight, tight, tight. This must be another nightmare. Has to be. I can’t be fake mated. I just cannot.
“I’ve never hated fungi so much in my entire life,” I mutter.
“I’m at a loss as what to do with that declaration, aside from forbidding my cooks to use it for the foreseeable future.”
I laugh, but only because it beats crying. “That’s how I ended up here. Because of fucking fungi.”
“Fucking fungi,” he repeats, his tone soft.
“I poisoned my beloved grandmother with some,” I feel the need to explain.
“May you never become fond of me.”
“I don’t think there’s much of a risk there, but, out of curiosity”—I reel my lids back up—“why?”
“Well, if you poison your loved ones, what horrors do you reserve for your foes?”
I blink at the male standing before me, and then I laugh—again. His lips curl in something dangerously close to charm, which causes me to reconsider my stance on his awfulness.
However charming he is, though, he’s still not my mate. “Where were we?”
“You were explaining the inevitability of touching.”
“Right.” For some reason—possibly the intensity of his stare—my lungs require another deep and prolonged intake of air. “We’ll need to handhold often.”
“Can’t we just walk arm in arm?”
I shoot him a look that makes his lips roll. “You had no trouble holding my hand yesterday.”
“Fine,” he says.
To set limits—and maybe, to fluster him a little—I say, “There will be no fondling of breasts.”
Sure enough, a wash of color rises up his neck and tinges his jaw.
Quite enjoying his discomfiture, I take it a step farther. “Perhaps an ass squeeze, if the moment calls for it, but hand-jobs whilst sitting on one’s throne are off the table.”
When the blush swims up to the tips of his ears, I almost regret needling him, but then I spot a serpentine vein thudding at his temple, and I realize it isn’t mortification that’s warped his skin tone but annoyance.
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you, Miss Ríhbiadh?”
I let him wonder, even though, yes, I am. “On the subject of fucking…”
His pink cheeks hollow. “I’m not interested in having sexual relations with you.”
Could he sound anymore repulsed?
“Trust me, I’m not either. I like my men more…colorful.” In looks, but mostly in personality. “What I was going to ask was, what do we do should we meet someone weareinterested in having sexual relations with?”For example, my real mate.
“As long as you wear my ring, I’ll ask that you stifle your sexual urges, for I don’t want to be made a fool of.” Pinning me with his stare, he asks, “Do you deem yourself capable of abstinence until the prophecy plays out?”
