“Your work, I’m told,” Asel answers.

“This mace steals the breath of surrounding enemies! It can kill without even touching an opponent, and yet it sits above the mantel as though it were a—a—decoration!”

As soon as the words are out, I remember myself and turn to Asel in a panic. He’s going to report back to his fathers, and I’ll be—

He starts laughing. Then, as though he finally finds me interesting, he turns his body toward me. “Did you think my father intended to take it into battle? Wage some war against my other father’s opposers?”

I look down at the ground, a smile surfacing on my lips, because I cannot help it. “Maybe. Or just wear it threateningly, in case anyone thought to bear ill will toward the governor.”

“I’m afraid this is only supposed to make a statement and perhaps be a great conversation starter when other politicians are visiting.”

“What statement?”

“He who bears this mace bears great wealth,” Asel says in a deep, mocking tone.

I laugh again and find the courage to raise my eyes. “So you won’t tattle on me?”

“Whatever for?”

“My outburst regarding the mace’s resting place.”

“Not at all. I do find it curious, though, that you would care where the weapon ends up. You were paid regardless, yes?”

“Yes, but…”

Asel takes a step forward, showing he’s truly interested in the answer. “But?”

“I want to make the world a safer place. My weapons are supposed to do that.”

“But not if they’re attached to a wall.”

“Exactly.”

Asel purses his lips together in thought. “If I promise to use it if anyone should break in, will that make you happy?”

“Yes, it would,” I joke back.

“Then I promise,” he says, taking another step forward.

I realize a flurry of things at once. One, I’ve been hunching again, because Asel and I are at eye level. Two, he’s much closer than I originally thought, close enough to touch. And three, what I’d been doing was maybe confused as flirting, when really all I was trying to do was survive a conversation.

He leans forward, his lips puckering.

I step back, rise to my full height. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel better about the mace.”

Oh no. What do I do? Run for it? Or say something? Which would be less embarrassing at this point?

“No, thank you,” I say, and then I want to slap myself. What a stupid thing to say to someone trying to kiss you. But what else do you say? I haven’t ever had someone try to kiss me before. I haven’t prepared for this kind of confrontation.

“What?” he asks.

I cringe. I probably didn’t make sense the first time. “I don’t need you to make me feel better. I’m just fine.”

“Kiss me anyway,” he whispers in some sort of deep tone that I haven’t heard from him yet. He leans forward once more.

Goddesses. Why is it happening again?