I stare at her. She glares at me.
Then, with a perfectly straight face, she says, “You know what? Fine. I’ll just drink. I’ll drink away all my problems. I’ll drink away these cramps. I’ll drink away my anger.”
“Or,” I say, dry, “we go in, make an appearance, and leave.”
She squints at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Her suspicion deepens. “You swear?”
“I actually have shit to do, so yes. We make an appearance, stay long enough not to offend anyone, and then we leave.”
She studies me for a second, then props herself up on her elbows. “Why do you care so much anyway?”
I lean back slightly, looking down at her. “Because I wasn’t there for their father passing.”
Her face shifts.
“We were in Russia,” I say. “And I didn’t make an appearance after.”
“You still sent men to help save Adriana.”
“That was more her brother’s doing, thanks to the alliance, but yes.”
“Fucking alliance. Stupid Sovereigns.”
My jaw tightens. “The alliance is necessary.”
Her expression hardens immediately. “I still don’t understand why. Our men are more than capable.”
“The Sovereigns were set in stone long before you, Ayla.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know it landed wrong.
Her face closes.
She sits up fully now and swings her legs off the bed. “Right. Of course. Everything was before me.”
“Not everything.”
She stands, grabs her dress off the chair, and stalks toward the bathroom.
“Ayla.”
She keeps walking.
“Don’t slam the—”
She slams the bathroom door so hard the walls practically shake.
I drag a hand down my face and stare at the wood for a long second.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
When she comes back out, I forget every coherent thought I’ve ever had.
The dress clings in all the right places, backless, dark and sinful against her skin. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, the faded red at the ends catching the light. She stands there looking like trouble carved into silk.
