“Donotexpand on that,” a male baritone warned, the command as chilling as a layer of sleet.
A second couple occupied the threshold from which I’d come, their differences in height extreme. The man’s head nearly hit the door casing, a tide of dark blue hair fell down his broadtorso, and two piercing crystalline irises dissected our group. A thicket of bristling fur outlined the male’s coat, offsetting the sharpness of his visage, the contours of which could sever an artery from a single look.
Next to him stood a petite woman with cropped dark hair, deep olive skin, and eyes like melted gold. She burrowed against the man, their hands clasping as if they’d been fated from the beginning. One might describe their love bond as a marriage between fire and ice.
However, their reactions could not be more distinct. Annoyance hardened the man’s features, as if such requests were a regular occurrence between him and the jester. By comparison, his free-spirited mate chuckled, the noise inaudible yet visibly evident.
Jeryn. King of Winter.
Flare. Sand drifter of Summer.
“This reunion was going so well,” Poet groaned at the sight of His Majesty, then commented to Flare, “Sweeting, I thought you promised to drop off Doctor Dread at his playground—ahem, the autopsy lab—on your way here.” He tossed the king a shit-eating expression. “Doesn’t that sound fun? Wouldn’t all those surgical tools and corpses be more fitting company than a meeting for warm-blooded grownups?”
Jeryn minced that suggestion to pieces. “Call my woman ‘Sweeting’ one more time, and I’ll use one of those surgical tools to extract your tongue.”
“As if that will stop you from being jealous of my dark wit.”
“Fuck your dark wit. And fuck you.”
“Don’t worry,” Nicu confided to me. “This is how they always greet each other.”
Between the castle blackout on Reaper’s Fest, our clan’s voyage to The Phantom Wild, and our alliance with Jerynand Flare before my departure, I had been granted previews of the love-hate relationship that defined the king and jester. Nonetheless, considerable time had lapsed since those contentious episodes.
I squinted between them. “And you’re still friends?”
“We’re a situation,” Poet clarified while holding Jeryn’s glacial scowl.
Folding her hands primly, Briar sighed. “Creatures of habit is another term for it.”
A grumble skidded up my throat. Dutifully, I restrained the instinct. In the beginning, I had not trusted the king, much less tolerated his brutal nature. Yet this monarch had redeemed himself, the transcendence chiefly due to his romance with Flare.
I humbled myself to the ground. “Your Majesty.” Then to his mate. “My lady, Flare.”
Uncomfortable with these displays on her behalf, Flare shook her head and flapped her hands for me to stand. And because Winter’s culture prioritized practicality over hyperbole, Jeryn accepted the genuflection without a shred of ego.
He slit his gaze, echoing Flare’s sentiment. “Allies don’t kneel.”
“Especially not to him,” Poet remarked.
Jeryn aimed a flinty gaze at the jester, then speared his attention to me. “Rise.”
Flare offered a kindhearted grin.“Friends don’t kneel any more than allies do.”
Over time, all of us made a concerted effort, learning to read her lips. Nonetheless, it took me a moment to process the request. As I gained my feet, she flung her arms around me with the same vigor Nicu had demonstrated.
Veering back, the lady mouthed,“How was your adventure?”
“There is much to tell,” I answered.
“And there is much to ask.” Briar swung her arm at the table. “We’re on time.”
“No, we are not,” Jeryn refuted. “Where the fuck is Aspen?”
“She’s right the fuck here.”
My pulse drummed, the reaction unaccountable. Aspen strutted into the room, the cloak swishing around her curves, the axe at her hip reflecting every lick of fire from the hearth. By estimation, she should have arrived long before I did, given how she left me sprawled like a drunken bear.
“Hmm,” Poet contemplated. “Fashionably late, for once.”
