Page 91 of Onyx Cage: Volume II

“We need to talk.” Her tone was wary.

I mentally sorted through a list of what might have concerned her enough to come here in the middle of the night, not to hurl accusations at me, but to have an actual conversation.

Our wedding was looming closer, and with it, her trip to Socair. The king’s words resounded in my head, the rage that she would return to a kingdom that had tried to kill her, the way she had frozen in her seat when he said it.

I nodded as I stood to fully face her, understanding washing over me. “About what your father said?—”

But she shook her head, interrupting me. “No, not that. Just...ignore him.” She scowled. “I am.”

I bit back a sigh, not sure it was better that she was once again prepared to walk in without a single concern for the enmity surrounding her and the implications therein.

“He isn’t wrong about the danger,” I cautioned her.

She stepped closer, scoffing quietly. “And you think that I don’t know that?” She lifted her chin, boring her gaze into mine. “That I don’t have the reminder permanently etched into my skin?”

Rage resided perpetually within me, somewhere behind the careful control I had worked a lifetime to master. Most of the time, I was able to keep it at bay, sealed within an impenetrable fortress.

But fury seeped through the cracks, flooding my veins every time I remembered exactly how she had gotten those scars.

Still, she couldn’t claim on the one hand to keep those reminders close and then disregard her father’s warning on the other.

It was an effort to keep my tone even when I responded. “I think that you have a habit of behaving recklessly, and we’re going to need to proceed with extreme caution, especially until our...alliance is official in Socair and you have the protection of a Clan Wife.”

She bit her lip thoughtfully, which was better than the indignation I had prepared myself for. Taking a breath to calm myself, I crossed the room to my decanter and poured a generous serving of whiskey.

Whatever she had actually come to discuss, I assumed I would need it, let alone after the visceral memory of her bleeding out in the snow. Besides, it was easier to think when she wasn’t standing quite so close to me, when I couldn’t feel the energy humming off her skin.

Shaking that off, I gestured to the sitting room. It was the first time we had used it. Perhaps the only intentional conversation we had engaged in since Bear that wasn’t filled with insults and accusations.

Though, I supposed that remained to be seen. I could at least endeavor to keep things civil, difficult as she made that sometimes. Especially with the distraction of her standing so very close to my bed.

And my person.

Fortunately, she followed, settling into the chair across from me.

“Will that even matter, when Ava is a Clan Wife, too?” she asked, returning to our discussion at hand.

That was a conundrum I had considered at length.

“On the surface, yes,” I began. “Even the dukes can’t harm their own wives. It’s probably the single limitation to their power, lest the people revolt. However, given Ava’s underhanded methods, it’s not a perfect solution.”

I owed her full transparency when it came to the woman who had successfully hurt her once before, though it rankled at every part of me to acknowledge my limitations in keeping her safe.

She met my eyes, letting me see a rare glimpse of her serious side. The part of her that actually did consider the stakes of a situation, who tended to my wounds in the hours after Dmitriy’s and Igor’s deaths.

“This is assuming your father even agrees to this.” Her voice was quiet, understandably.

I didn’t like to discuss my father, something she knew perfectly well, but her question was warranted.

“I have taken measures to ensure that he will,” I assured her, having no desire to go into more detail than that. Technically, he had agreed already, but that agreement was as dubious as everything else about his mental state. “Looking for a way out already, Lemmikki?”

I was only half teasing. It would save her the trouble of backing out if my father refused to give his consent. If she had changed her mind.

But she only sipped her drink, cheeks flushing lightly.

“Just wanting to be sure what I’m walking into.” The words were strained, like it hadn’t been quite what she wanted to say. Or not all she wanted to say? “Is there anything else I should know about, then?” she asked in a lighter tone. “Any arcane blood rituals or sacrifices to the god of foul-tasting soup?”

Again, there was a hesitant quality to her words, like she was dancing around what she wanted to know, which was unusual for her.