Kirigin held up his hands as if he could ward her off. “I simply meant—”

She knew what he meant. Rumors had surrounded her and Nikolai for months, rumors she had encouraged to hide the secret of the demon that lived inside him and what it took to keep the monster under control. So why did it make her so angry to hear these words now?

She took a slow breath. “Kirigin, you are a charming, handsome, very … amiable man.”

“I … am?” he said, then added with more surety, “I am.”

“Yes, you are. But we are not suited in temperament.”

“I think if you just—”

“No just.” She took another breath and forced herself to rein in her tone. She sat down at the table. Kirigin had been a loyal friend to the king and had put himself at considerable risk over the last few years by letting his home be used as a base for their weapons development. He wasn’t a bad sort. She could try and be pleasant. “I think I know the way you see this playing out.”

Kirigin flushed even redder. “I highly doubt that.”

Zoya suspected it involved bodies entwined and possibly him playing her a song on the lute, but she would spare them both that particular image.

“You will invite me to a fine dinner. We’ll both drink too much wine. You’ll get me to talk about myself, the pressures of my position, the sadness of my past. Perhaps I’ll shed a tear or two. You’ll listen sensitively and astutely and somehow discover my secret self. Something like that?”

“Well, not precisely. But … yes!” He leaned forward. “I want to know the true you, Zoya.”

She reached out and took his hand. It was clammy with sweat.

“Count Kirigin. Emil. There is no secret self. I’m not going to reveal another me to you. I’m not going to be tamed by you. I am the king’s general. I am the commander of the Second Army, and right now my people are facing down the enemy without me there.”

“But if you would only—”

Zoya dropped his hand and slumped back in her chair. So much for pleasant. “War or not, if I ever hear another amorous word or invitation leave your mouth, I will knock you unconscious and let a street urchin steal your boots, understood?”

“My boots?”

Hiram Schenck breezed through the doors without knocking, his cheeks florid and what looked like hard-boiled egg crumbled over the lapels of his staid black merchant’s suit. His pride struck Zoya like a blow, his confidence bright and buoying.

“Good morning,” he declared, clapping his hands together. “By Ghezen’s hand, this room is frigid.”

“You’re late.”

“Am I? Duke Radimov serves a very fine lunch. A most excellent host indeed. Your king might take a page from his book.”