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“That’s my final offer, my love,” I tell her.

“Fine,” she says. “That gives me a few weeks at least.”

“Of course.” I kiss her hand, wondering what this ‘performance’ tomorrow will be like. Perhaps she’ll make us drag her in front of her father? Or maybe she’ll cry?

Discomfort twists inside me. Would I want her to?

“Eden can start.” Castor pulls me out of my thoughts.

“Start what?” I ask.

“The game,” he laughs as I roll my eyes. “Eden, ask a question.”

I want to tell her she can forget his ridiculous game until she speaks. “What’s my favourite colour?”

“Yellow,” Castor says faster than an arrow. I scoff, but he’s already tilting his head, his gaze taking in every soft inch of my mate. “I dare you to sit on my lap instead.”

She tenses.

“Ignore him. Forget this stupid game,” I snarl, but then she stands up and drifts over to the bed. Jealousy stirs inside me as she slips off her boots and cloak, tossing them to the floor before perching on my brother’s lap.

He wraps his arms around her waist, grinning.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” I growl.

“Easy there, brother,” he laughs. “It’s just a game. Show some sportsmanship.”

I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his sportsmanship when Eden speaks again, “Who asks a question next?”

“Whoever won the last round.” Castor smirks at her. “So me, my darling.”

Dropping my chin into my palm, I huff, “Get on with it then.”

Castor shoots me a look before thinking for a moment. A deliberately long moment. “What’s my favourite colour?”

Eden beats me to it, “Red!”

“Correct,” he laughs. “Now you may give me a truth or a dare.”

“Dare him to bring us some dinner,” I grumble.

“Sportsmanship,” he sings to me.

Eden laughs. “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she breathes, “a secret.”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “I think you are quite possibly the most beautiful person I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

I tsk. “Terrible answer.”

“What would you say then, brother?” Castor turns to me. “What’s your secret?”

“I’ll give her one of yours.” I lean forward. “When Castor was a boy he was deathly afraid of Spirits’ Night.”

“Really?” Eden laughs.

Castor shrugs. “Some of the costumes were scary, and I was six years old.”

“Thirteen at least,” I chuckle. “Until you realised that costume parties are an excellent excuse to talk to women wearing very little.”