House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2) by Sarah J. Maas

The River Queen’s daughter relaxed visibly, shoulders slumping. “How sweet.”

“I’d like to introduce you sometime.” A blatant lie.

“I shall ask Mother.”

He said, “I’m going to see them again tomorrow. You could join me.” It was reckless, but … he’d spent ten years now avoiding her, dodging the truth. Maybe they could change it up a bit.

“Oh, Mother will need more time than that to prepare.”

He bowed his head, the picture of understanding. “Just let me know when. It’ll be a double date.”

“What’s that?”

Television didn’t exist down here. Or at least in the River Queen’s royal chambers. So popular culture, anything modern … they weren’t even on her radar.

Not that theirs could be considered a true betrothal. It was more like indentured servitude.

“Two couples going out to a meal together. You know, a date … times two.”

“Ah.” A pretty smile. “I’d like that.”

So would Athalar. Tharion would never hear the end of it. He glanced at the clock. “I do have an early start, and this engine is a mess …”

It was as close to a dismissal as he’d ever dare make. He did have a few rights: she could seek him out for sex—as she’d done—but he could say no without repercussions; and his duties as Captain of Intelligence were more important than seeing to her needs. He prayed she’d consider fixing a wave skimmer one of those duties.

Ogenas be thanked, she did. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

And then she was gone, the scent of water lilies with her. As the doors slid open to let her through, Tharion glimpsed her four mer guards waiting on the other side—the River Queen’s daughter never went anywhere alone. The broad-chested males would have fought to the death for the chance to share her bed. He knew they detested him for having and rejecting that access.

He’d happily yield his position. If only the River Queen would let him.

Alone again, Tharion sighed, leaning his forehead against the wave skimmer.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. It could be weeks or years until she and her mother would start pushing for the wedding. And then for children. And he’d be locked in a cage, here below the surface, until even his Vanir life expired. Old and dreamless and forgotten.

A fate worse than death.

But if this thing with Sofie and Emile Renast was indeed playing out in a big way … he’d use it as his temporary escape. He didn’t give a shit about the rebellion, not really. But his queen had given him a task, so he’d milk this investigation for all it was worth. Perhaps see what the intel Sofie had gathered could gain him.

Until his own stupid choices finally called in a debt.

“And here’s the common room,” Hunt said through his teeth to Baxian as he shouldered open the door to the barracks hangout area. “As you already know.”

“Always nice to hear from a local,” Baxian said, black wings folded in tightly as he noted the dim space: the little kitchenette to the left of the door, the sagging chairs and couches before the large TV, the door to the bathrooms straight ahead. “This is only for triarii?”

“All yours tonight,” Hunt said, checking his phone. After ten. He’d been on his way out at seven when Celestina had called, asking him to give Baxian a tour of the Comitium. Considering the sheer size of the place … it had taken this long. Especially because Baxian had oh-so-many questions.

The bastard knew he was keeping Hunt here. Away from Bryce and that sweet, sumptuous mouth. Which was precisely why Hunt had opted to grin and bear it: he wouldn’t give the shithead the satisfaction of knowing how much he was pissing him off. Or turning his balls blue.

But enough was enough. Hunt asked, “You need me to tuck you into bed, too?”

Baxian snorted, going up to the fridge and yanking it open. The light bounced off his wings, silvering their arches. “You guys have crap beer.”

“Government salary,” Hunt said, leaning against the doorway. “Menus for takeout are in the top drawer to your right; or you can call down to the canteen and see if they’re still serving. Good? Great. Bye.”

“What’s that?” Baxian asked, and there was enough curiosity in his tone that Hunt didn’t bite his head off. He followed the direction of the Helhound’s gaze.

“Um. That’s a TV. We watch stuff on it.”

Baxian threw him a withering glare. “I know what a TV is, Athalar. I meant those wires and boxes beneath.”

Hunt arched a brow. “That’s an OptiCube.” Baxian stared at him blankly. Hunt tried again. “Gaming system?” The Helhound shook his head.

For a moment, Hunt was standing in Baxian’s place, assessing the same room, the same strange, new tech, Isaiah and Justinian explaining what a fucking mobile phone was. Hunt said roughly, “You play games on it. Racing games, first-person games … giant time suck, but fun.”

Baxian looked like the word—fun—was foreign to him, too. Solas.

Sandriel hated technology. Had refused to allow even televisions in her palace. Baxian might as well have been transported here from three centuries ago. Hunt himself had encountered tech in other parts of the world, but when most of his duties had kept him focused on Sandriel or her missions, he hadn’t really had time to learn about everyday shit.