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"I was seventeen."

"That is not a defense."

"It wasn't meant to be."

I stare at the tattoo. Then him. "I have dramatically overestimated your intelligence."

"Frequently."

I laugh again. "What was the dare?"

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"Was alcohol involved?"

"Obviously."

"Oh, gods." His mouth curves. Actually curves. There.

Not enough for the full dimples. Close.

"Did Caelen get one too?"

"Yes."

My eyes widen. "Where?"

Rhyven looks at me. "No."

"Rhyven."

"Ask him."

"I absolutely will."

"You shouldn't."

"That guarantees I will." His smile grows. Tiny. But enough. Gods. I look away before I make that a problem. Instead— "How old were you when you bonded Vyrael?"

"Twelve."

I turn back. "Twelve?"

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"Probably."

"Were you scared?"

Rhyven looks at me. I expect sarcasm. Deflection. Nothing. Instead— "Terrified."

I blink. "You?"