“My—fiancee? Except you have not given me your hand so we are only promised to be promised.”

“Artur—what?”

“You will be the Princess of the Black Sea,” he told her, completely ignoring her shushing motions, “and one day you and I will be the High King and Queen after my dear father is gone.”

“No. We. Won’t!”

He smiled at her. “Ah, yes. Biped wooing. Thomas warned me.”

“Thomas warned you?”

“Yes, it is an odd thing, being fond of my greatest rival, but I cannot help it. He is decisive, clever, duplicitous, and violent. All the things that make the bipeds formidable. He informed me that you will be his and not mine, but we have agreed to woo you in our own way and ultimately let you make the choice when you are ready.”

“But—but—but—”

“He will lose, of course. And now, I go.”

Artur got to his feet without using his hands, which looked impressive, and strode to the door. She sat up, swung her legs off the couch, ignored the shooting pains, and raced after him.

“You can’t just leave!”

“But I must.”

“But you can’t just say all that—that stuff and then just march out the door!” Not both of them, she thought frantically. Not both of them!

“But I will come back.” He cupped the back of her neck, kissed her sweetly, then opened the door. “I will always come back.”

He closed the door with a soft click.

“But I don’t want to be the High Queen of the Black Sea!” she shouted at the closed door.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Thomas asked sleepily, standing in the bedroom doorway.

“It’s not a bed, it’s a couch. And who could go to sleep right now?”

He yawned. “Did Artur leave? God, finally. He’s not bad, for an arrogant, entitled, overbearing, non-intellecutal, pompous…” There was more in this vein, but Fred didn’t catch it as Thomas had turned around and gone back to bed.

The doorknob rattled and she stared at it fearfully. What was that line from Dorothy Parker? Or was it Shakespeare? “What fresh hell is this?” From Hamlet or some damned thing, and that’s just how she felt, too, like some fresh hell was lurking around the—

She yanked the door open. Barb and Jonas were in a clinch, from which they separated with difficulty.

“You two,” she said bitterly, and went back inside. She fished a bottle of water from the wet bar (what the hell, Thomas could afford it) and ignored the cooing, cuddling couple behind her.

“Feeling better?” Jonas asked with grating cheer. “Because girlfriend, you look like shit on a plate.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied, taking a deep swig. “Not all of us could spend the afternoon mating like rabbits. And what are you doing here, anyway?”