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“England has a queen?”
“Not currently. It’s an expression.”
“An inaccurate one.”
“You’re really going to lecture me about accuracy while standing here with your entire Greek mythology hanging out?”
His mouth curves again.
“You’re funny. Are all mortal women this amusing?”
I huff. “Charming too. Lovely.”
His grin deepens. “I’m beginning to enjoy your company, Wren.”
“Wonderful. My imaginary boyfriend has opinions.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.”
I choke on a laugh.
He looks entirely too satisfied with himself.
Then his attention drops to my wrist.
His smile disappears.
I follow his gaze.
The faint yellow bruises around my skin are barely visible now, but I know exactly where they came from.
Grant’s fingers.
The last night we were together.
The night he grabbed me hard enough to leave marks because I told him I was leaving.
Vidar reaches toward my wrist, then stops.
“May I?”
The question catches me off guard.
I nod.
He turns my arm gently, examining the fading bruises.
His expression goes frighteningly still.
The air changes.
A low vibration rolls through the courtyard, and the obsidian fragments scattered around his feet begin to tremble.
“Name.”
