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“Prince of what?”

“My Pack. We're a small, old Wolf Pack with origins in Sicily. My family came to the States roughly a hundred years ago.”

“Sicily,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“Palermo.”

“Yes.”

I narrow my eyes.

“That's a little on the nose, don't you think?”

He laughs, and Goddess, I love that sound.

“So the outfit tonight...”

“Is mine.”

“Not a costume.”

“No, Sweet.”

“The medals?”

“Mine.”

I blink at his chest.

Then his face. Then his chest again.

Well.

That explains why every other man in the ballroom looked like he was playing dress-up while Grimm looked like he was preparing to invade a neighboring kingdom.

“And the server at dinner called you Your Highness because...”

“Because that is how members of my Pack still traditionally address me.”

“You told me they misspoke.”

“I lied.”

I gasp.

“You did.”

“Yes.”

“You lied directly to my face.”

“I was cursed.”

“Oh, we're going to milk that excuse for a while, aren't we?”

“Absolutely.”