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Valerie and Iris return to their conversation about Iris’s university studies while I follow him away from the table. We stop beside a carved stone railing overlooking the lower mountain slopes. The air is thinner here, with the faint scent of pine and ozone cutting through the lingering spice of Rakan’s magic.

The moment we are out of earshot, his relaxed expression disappears. He grips my arm, and the amber fire threading his obsidian skin flares red. Heat sinks through the fabric of my shirt beneath his hand.

“You need to be careful, my friend,” he says. “I know you and Valerie aren’t truly mated. I understand why you brought her, but your mother is here, and she’s on the warpath.”

I don’t pull away. “Solveig is always on the warpath. I can handle her.”

“She brought Maren.”

Of course she did. My mother wastes no time. She knows the treaty has left me with few options, and bringing Maren here gives her another way to apply pressure before the wedding ceremonies even begin.

Rakan’s grip tightens. “They’re currently sipping nectar in the sky lounge and looking like a tribunal. Solveig may not challenge you openly at my wedding, but that doesn’t mean she won’t find a way to make Valerie uncomfortable.”

“I know my mother better than anyone, Rakan. That’s precisely why I took the chance of bringing Valerie here.” I glance toward the patio. “Solveig values appearances too much to create a public scene at your wedding, especially when you’re marrying a human yourself.”

Rakan follows my gaze before releasing my arm. The red in his veins settles gradually back to amber.

“I suppose it would be gauche,” he says. “Definitely beneath the kraken matriarch. Still, I wouldn’t underestimate her.”

“I don’t.” I turn back to him. “I won’t let Valerie pay for whatever point my mother is trying to make.”

Rakan nods and purses his lips. “Iris and I will do what we can to help. Camille will too, although she may pretend she’s only protecting the seating plan.”

“Thank you, Rakan. I appreciate it. Truly.”

When I look back toward the table, Valerie is listening to something Iris is telling her. She has found someone here she likes, and I’m glad of it.

It also reminds me that she agreed to play my date, not to be punished for my refusal to obey my mother. Maren was always part of the arrangement. Becoming collateral in whatever battle Solveig intends to fight with me was not.

I start back toward the table with Rakan beside me. Valerie looks up as we approach, still smiling.

She is not my mate. And no matter how much I dislike the idea, I’ll soon have to drag her onto my mother’s political battlefield. Even so, I’ll do my best to protect that beautiful smile—from Solveig, Maren, and everyone else who might threaten it.

6

Frawjō

Valerie

The room is too quiet for sleep. Back home, the ocean would be battering the Saltweather breakwater by now, loud enough to reach my bedroom. Even on calm nights, there was always water against concrete or harbor chains knocking somewhere in the dark.

Marta used to tell me to listen for three-second intervals when I was a child. “Listen to the water hit the concrete, Val. The tide always keeps time.” I stare at the dark ceiling and try to imagine the rhythm, but Mt. Qaf hangs above the clouds without a tide, a harbor, or anything familiar enough to measure the silence.

Tomorrow I have to meet Solveig Haraldsdóttir and convince her that what exists between Sigurd and me is real. Saltweather depends on this arrangement working. Maren will be there too, not only as the woman who shares three centuries of history with him, but as the match Solveig wants for her son.

A faint blue glow beneath the bedroom door catches my attention. It brightens and fades in a slow rhythm, spilling across a narrow strip of floor. Sigurd is asleep on the velvet couch outside, and his markings pulse with his breathing. Once I notice the cadence, my mind starts counting.

Sleep still feels a long way off. Rakan’s bookshelves might contain something dull enough to finish the job, provided I can find it without waking Sigurd. Find a book. Read about trade routes until you pass out. Do not wake the billionaire.

I pull on the robe lying across the footboard and cross to the door. The latch gives a quiet click when I open it, and Sigurd’s blue light spreads farther across the floor.

“Please let there be something boring on those shelves,” I whisper. “A tax manual. A history of dirt. Anything.”

Moonlight spills through the tall windows of the living room and catches on the edges of the furniture. I give the couch plenty of room and head for the bookshelves along the far wall.

The leather spines smell faintly of dust and old binding glue. That, at least, is familiar. I run a finger along a row of cracked volumes and stop at an encyclopedia that looks promisingly tedious.

A shadow drops across the windows before I can pull it free. Something enormous lands on the balcony, and scaled talons slam against the emerald railing hard enough to send a vibration through the floor. A hooked beak scrapes against the glass, followed by one dark eye larger than my head.