So I held his gaze. “I never knew Illyrians were such morose drunks.”
“I’m not drunk—I’m drinking,” he said, his teeth flashing a bit.
“Again, semantics.” I leaned back in my seat, wishing I’d brought my
coat. “Maybe you should have slept with Cresseida after all—so you
could both be sad and lonely together.”
“So you’re entitled to have as many bad days as you want, but I can’t
get a few hours?”
“Oh, take however long you want to mope. I was going to invite you
to come shopping with me for said lacy little unmentionables, but … sit
up here forever, if you have to.”
He didn’t respond.
I went on, “Maybe I’ll send a few to Tarquin—with an offer to wear
them for him if he forgives us. Maybe he’ll take those blood rubies right
back.”
His mouth barely, barely tugged up at the corners. “He’d see that as a
taunt.”
“I gave him a few smiles and he handed over a family heirloom. I bet
he’d give me the keys to his territory if I showed up wearing those
undergarments.”
“Someone thinks mighty highly of herself.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You seem to have difficulty not staring at me day
and night.”
There it was—a kernel of truth and a question.
“Am I supposed to deny,” he drawled, but something sparked in those
eyes, “that I find you attractive?”
“You’ve never said it.”
“I’ve told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find
you.”
I shrugged, even as I thought of all those times—when I’d dismissed
them as teasing compliments, nothing more. “Well, maybe you should do
a better job of it.”
The gleam in his eyes turned into something predatory. A thrill went
through me as he braced his powerful arms on the table and purred, “Is
that a challenge, Feyre?”
I held that predator’s gaze—the gaze of the most powerful male in
Prythian. “Is it?”
-ACOMAF, Chp 38
