Crovan reached out. Melanna caught his wrist and narrowed her eyes to slits. “You forget yourself.”

His grinned. “So formal, my dear princessa.”

“Consider yourself fortunate. If one of my father’s Immortals were here, you’d have lost that hand.”

“And perhaps it would have been worth it.”

Melanna squeezed his wrist until she felt the bones shift, then let his hand fall. She knew Crovan’s desire stemmed as much from what she represented as an attraction to body or soul. And she hadn’t fought to escape arranged marriage only to become a notch on a wolf’s-head’s grubby bedpost.

“And what of the promise you made?” she asked.

“I gave my word not to attempt contact. Fortunate for us all that I don’t have to.”

Melanna kept her face immobile. Crovan could garb his actions in whatever cloth he wished, but a lie was still a lie. Even when it served her cause. “You should not trade honour so lightly.”

Crovan snorted. “Honour is a sop to conscience. It doesn’t break chains or feed the hungry. It doesn’t bring freedom . . .”

“Or make legends?”

“Are you speaking of me, or your father?” His eyes widened in amusement. “Or yourself?”

She slapped him across the cheek, regretting the blow even before the whip-crack had faded. It spoke to a loss of control. Gave Crovan the power of satisfaction. Showed both her temperament and the inexperience of youth a little too plain. His grin reinforced the sense of failure. Still, the temptation remained to strike him again.

“Tell your father nothing has changed. When he comes, we’ll be ready.”

“And what of the duke?”

“He’ll learn to live with his disappointments.” He shrugged. “Or he won’t. Either way, I’ll deal with it.”

Seven

Seven

For the third time, Josiri slid the opal-tipped pin through silk. For the third time, the cravat sat defiantly askew in the mirror. With a growl of irritation, he tossed the pin on the dresser.

It seemed petty to be riled so, especially with the unwanted speech looming large. But perhaps that was part of it. Anastacia’s suggestion carried a good deal of risk, but it felt right. It felt like something his mother would have done. But what if it pushed Makrov’s fragile pride beyond breaking point? How many would pay the price? There was no predicting that, not with certainty. Better to be angry at a sliver of jewellery.

“Poor brother. Bad enough your hair always looks like a windblown hay bale. Now this.”

Josiri turned. The reflection in the mirror twisted to encompass the doorway and Calenne’s mocking smile. She drew closer, pale skirts of a formal dress swishing about her feet. A far cry from the practical garb she preferred.

“Joining me on the balcony?” he asked, with no small surprise.