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“Whatever you’re picturing, it was better,” I say, and his eyes darken with desire.

“Perhaps we should re-enact it.”

Parts of me might be heating up at the thought, but then my stomach growls loudly, and I’m reminded there’s another part of my body that needs attention.

Ruskin chuckles.

“Food first,” he suggests, and I nod eagerly.

We’re back under the mountain, weaving through the stone corridors, when I see them: Turis, Brianne, and Climent, walking together and looking up to no good. I feel like a lovestruck fool—I’d gotten so wrapped up in Ruskin’s confession yesterday all thought about his cousins and what I overhead went out of my head. Now it comes flooding back, just as they catch sight of me.

“Magna Lunis,” Ruskin greets them, but they don’t offer the traditional response. Instead, they look like they’re going to pass by without a word, ignoring us completely. That is, until Brianne makes the mistake of murmuring a single word under her breath as they go past.

“Mutt.”

My eyes dart to Ruskin, wondering how he’ll react. He quirks an eyebrow and turns around to look at the fae.

“Did you say something?”

Brianne seems reluctant to reply, but Turis is more than happy to, stepping forward.

“My friend was merely expressing her opinions about having a half-breed in our court.”

I wonder at the man’s arrogance, to throw such insults so boldly in Ruskin’s face. If this were the Seelie Court, I feel like he’d already be dead. Even here, he obviously thinks us being dependent on Lisinder’s hospitality is enough to protect him from retaliation, but I’m not so sure.

Ruskin doesn’t look tense, though, simply curious. “Is that what they’re calling mixed blood these days? Rather unimaginative, isn’t it?” Then his eyes narrow, examining the two males more closely. “Aren’t you the gentlemen who took such pains to injure Lady Thorn in the game yesterday?”

Climent straightens up, looking defiant. “We were just playing it as it’s meant to be played. We can’t be held accountable for weaker beings signing up for something they can’t handle.”

Because I know him well, I can see the hatred coursing through Ruskin, tightening his shoulders. But to the untrained eye he still looks calm. A little twitch in his fingers is the only other sign that he wants to wrap them around Climent’s neck and squeeze hard.

“And yet she handled you, I seem to remember. I particularly enjoyed it when she broke your ankles.” Ruskin’s smile stretches from ear to ear and is perfectly disconcerting. I see even Turis take a small step back.

“Let’s not waste our time further,” the silver-haired fae says, and for the second time in as many days, I watch with satisfaction as he retreats. It’s becoming more and more obvious to me that Turis is only direct with his insults. When it comes to action, he’s much more slippery, preferring to pull strings behind the scenes. It fits with my theory about him being involved in Ruskin’s attack, and perhaps even Lucan’s death too.

“I thought you were going to tear him apart,” I say when they’re gone.

“Oh, I would have liked to,” Ruskin says. “Especially when I think about how they treated you in the game yesterday.”

“But?”

He looks at me, surprised, like he doesn’t understand why there’d be more to explain.

“But it would be messy, and there are better ways to take care of bigots like them.”

I search his face for a sign of the smoldering rage that so often haunted the Ruskin of the past. Perhaps Interra did gift him something when it took his memories: distance. It seems so much easier now for him to take a step back from his emotions—not that he doesn’t feel them, but now he can balance them better. They serve as more than sharp tools that cut him open even as he uses them to achieve his ends. I suppose that’s the kind of advantage you get when you can put certain traumas behind you.

Which makes me curious what his reaction will be when I bring up one of those traumas.

“I have to tell you something,” I say.

We sit in the bedroom, me cross-legged on the bed, him on the chaise, as I explain my encounter with Turis and his friends the day before. I recount how his dad was mentioned, once in the bar and then again in the conversation I overheard. I watch Ruskin carefully, but he simply leans back in the chaise, thinking.

“Destan filled me in on the death of my father,” he says. “From the way he described it, even I find it questionable. He was considered an excellent hunter. Surely he wouldn’t ever have found himself alone and unarmed in the path of those wolves—not unless magic was involved.”

“If there were ever even wolves at all,” I say, wondering exactly how much the Seelie Court questioned Lucan’s death. He wasn’t popular, and afterwards it sounds like Evanthe was so pressured to remarry even she didn’t have time to properly mourn—or to question what happened.

“Destan says I’ve always assumed that the murder came from within Seelie—especially after the betrayal of my sister and stepfather. But if I were in the killer’s shoes, and I was an Unseelie who wanted to end a fresh peace between the courts, he’d be the perfect target. A young prince, newly married and deeply in love with his wife—then dead, under conditions so odd they seem intentionally suspicious. If the killers were Seelie, they could’ve chosen any manner of more believable ends. This seems deliberate. They wanted people to suspect murder—specifically, they wanted the Unseelie to suspect it. They wanted people thirsty for revenge.”