“No,” I grate, face heating. “I definitely do not.”
Kristof shrugs. “I would ride that man from here to Astreona.”
Izabel laughs and interprets for Venna, who laughs too, a deep, throaty chuckle.
“He seems more like the type who prefers to do all the riding,” Tomison drawls.
Izabel sighs wistfully. “He does, doesn’t he?”
More laughter. I’m happy they’re enjoying themselves, but I turn away as the conversation veers hard towards sex. I should probably make a break for the exit. It won’t be long before people start pairing off, and I really don’t want to see if all the instructors are going to join in.
At that thought, my gaze unwillingly returns to Stark—only to find him staring right at me.
Shit.
It’s the same look he gave me at the arena. The same one he always gives me—dark eyes burning a hole through me, full lips practically pulled back in a sneer. I’ve seen that look enough times from men in the ring; it’s full of the promise of future violence.
I glare back for a moment, then look away, draining my glass as an excuse to break the contact.
A servant appears immediately to refill it.
While I’m avoiding Stark’s gaze and trying to plan my escape from the party, Kristof gets up to join another group. Tomison, too, wanders away on the hunt for his nightly fuck-buddy.
My head starts swimming pleasantly as I drain my second glass, still sitting between Izabel and Venna. The memory of today’s anxiety begins to blur at the edges, replaced with a warm glow of good humor.
Raised voices draw my attention back to Tomison, now across the room and gleefully demonstrating a complex sword maneuver to a group of Phylax Rawbonds. Beside me, Izabel watches intently.
“What’s up with that?” I ask, smirking broadly. “You got a thing for Tomison now?”
Izabel stiffens. “What, that idiot? Never!”
I glance smugly at Venna, who smothers a smile and then signs something rapid at Izabel.
“She says ‘You’re one to talk,’” Izabel interprets. “‘Everyone here has been enjoying the mate search but you, Meryn. What’s up withthat?’”
Tongue loosened by the emberwine, I thoughtlessly let slip the truth. “I’m too busy nursing a broken heart.”
The sisters exchange a look, rolling their eyes.
“What, some commoner you left behind?” Izabel asks. “Come on, you’re not going back to that world.Thisis your world now. And what if your direwolf has a mate? It’s crazy not to try to help her!”
“No, you don’t get it,” I say, leaning in conspiratorially, and making sure to speak clearly so Venna catches my words above the clamor. “The guy who stomped on my heart is here. In the castle.”
Their identical expressions of shock turn quickly to gleeful interest.
“Who is he?” Izabel demands. “Is he a Rawbond? Which pack is he from?”
Before I can gather the words to respond, I realize my glass is empty.
Well, that just won’t do.
“Hold on,” I say, “I need more wine.”
I look around for one of those servants with the decanters. They all seem to be busy elsewhere, but there’s a serving table on the other end of the room.
I excuse myself to a chorus of protests from Izabel and Venna, promising to tell them everything later. The room tilts a bit when I rise, and Stark’s eyes follow me as I make my way to the table.
To my unpleasant surprise, he appears beside me just as I reach for the decanter of wine.
