I stand inside a large square space filled with sturdy wooden chairs and tables. Iron chests and oriental rugs cover the floor. King Connor sits on a high-back chair in a black tunic, a sheet of parchment in his hand. His white hair hangs neatly to his shoulders. Octavia stands beside him.

The King rises to his feet, his face creasing into a smile as he greets his son. Connor’s basso voice rings out: “Hello, hello!” He lumbers over to Lincoln, wrapping him in a bear hug. It feels like a million years eke by as the King slowly turns to me. I grit my teeth and try to plaster on a smile.

“What’s this?” The King sets his meaty fists on his hips. “I wasn’t informed of any strangers coming to visit.” His voice drips with irritation.

Here it comes. The gruffness.

Lincoln grips my hand. “This is Myla, father. She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about.”

Telling you about? My heart kicks in my chest. Lincoln’s been chatting me up with his parents. My fake grin turns into a real one.

Connor leans back on one heel. “Yes, I remember.” His eyes narrow as he takes me in from head to toe. “You’re the quasi-demon.”

I open my mouth to correct him, but Lincoln gets there first. “Her name is Myla.” His tone has a protective edge. My grin grows wider. His protective side is hot.

The King lumbers back to his table, and then plunks his burly frame into a high-back chair. Octavia slides into the empty seat beside him. Lincoln and I stand a few yards away, hand in hand.

Connor lets out a long breath. “If you’re here, I assume the two of you are in trouble.” The way he says ‘trouble,’ I know he’s thinking one thing: I’m carrying Lincoln’s child.

Anger shoots through my body. Whoa there, asshole! I’m a lot of things. Pregnant isn’t one of them.

Octavia gasps. “Connor!”

He slaps the tabletop with him palms. “Well, they are in trouble, aren’t they?” He turns to me. “Aren’t you?”

That does it. What a nasty, arrogant, and insulting dickweed! My eyes flare red with rage. “That would be no, your Disgustingness.” My tone drips with venom. “Keep your dirty mind to yourself.”

Lincoln turns to me, his face twisted with worry. “Myla, what are you doing?” He leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one speaks to my father that way.”

My teeth grind. So we’re back to requiring ‘special words of reverence’ when speaking with thrax royalty, eh? I did not fight about this with Lincoln for three months solid just to cave in with his dear old dad. He’ll show me some respect, too.