“I’m your fiancé. Hardly a stranger.”
I cant my head to the side. “Beg to differ. Mealtimes are all small talk, so I’ve learnednothingabout you.”
“What would you like to know?” he asks, eyes roaming over the bedchamber that once belonged to his mother, but which—according to Izolda—has stood vacant since Konstantina’s death.
Is the décor the same? The furniture? The burgundy sheets? Was Konstantina the one who opted to have a bouquet of outsized roses painted on the wall behind the canopy bed?
The Ice King’s gaze comes to rest on the locked door that blunts the floral painting. Is he picturing his mother opening it to join her husband? Did he ever use that door to travel between his parents’ chambers?
When a small shudder disturbs the rigid line of his shoulders, I decide to draw him out of his tangible nostalgia. “It’s not so much things Iwantto know, but things Ishouldknow as your fiancée. For example, what’s your favorite food?”
“Borscht.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Beet soup?”
He slants me a look.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t judge. I just didn’t expect it to be yourfavorite.” I didn’t expect it to be anyone’s favorite for that matter. “Favorite drink?”
“Water.”
Again…not what I was expecting. “Anything else?”
“I enjoy an occasional shot of vodka or glass of Faerie wine, but they’re not, by any means, favorites. I do like black tea with a splash of milk.”
I recall him drinking only that the night of our dinner with Bohdan Zaslofsky and my father. “Favorite color?”
“Why must I favor one color over another?”
“Because everyone has a favorite color.”
“I don’t.”
Blowing a breath out of the corner of my mouth, I ask, “To wear?”
“I suppose blue or gray.”
“Have I ever met any of the women you’ve slept with?”
His lids squeeze. “I would never talk about the women I bedded—with you, or with anyone else.”
“No, but I’d probably be able to lift the information from your mind if we were”—even though we speak Crow, I drop my voice on the word—“mates. In any case, I’d prefer being prepared if I bumped into someone who’s known you intimately.”
The bones in his face realign and sharpen. “You’ll never bump into anyone I’ve bedded.”
“Why? Did you have them deported? Murdered?”
“No.” His jaw spasms.
“In case Iwereto find myself at an event with one of them, warn me in advance, all right?” I take a long inhale, readying myself to ask a question I know he’ll loathe even more than the last. “What does your cock look like?”
He chokes on air, his expression teetering somewhere between absolute horror and extreme annoyance.
“It’s the sort of detail I’d know. If you prefer to show me rather than describe it…”
His complexion becomes such a fiery-red that even the whites of his eyes appear pink.
I realize it will probably incense him further, but I cannot help the grin that overtakes my lips. “Would you prefer I feel you above your trousers?”
