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Oh gods, Quentin Jordak.
And Quentin was positively scowling. Right at her.
Min looked away quickly, an ominous feeling of dread filling her chest. It was supposed to be a good thing that for the first time, humans were attending the gala dinner. But seeing Quentin here didn’t feel good. Everything came flooding back to her: the way he’d stare at her body whenever he visited the Westerly, the unpleasant things he’d said to Ethan at his office, the way he’d questioned Bonnie when he’d stopped by the shop.
Would he make trouble tonight?
No, of course he wouldn’t. Not here. Besides, he’d never done anything to her that would warrant her feeling this worried.
Ethan stopped at their table and reluctantly, the men stood from their seats.
“May I introduce my partner, Minerva Westwind.”
Min could hardly breathe in the tight dress as she felt Quentin’s eyes boring into her.
“Hello, Simon. H-hello Quentin,” she said, trying to sound confident, but she didn’t offer her hand in greeting. If they refused to shake hands with monsters, then she would not shake hands with them. Simon was polite, but Quentin greeted her through tight teeth, and his eyes were slivers of ice.
Min carefully avoided his gaze as Ethan exchanged polite pleasantries with the men, and then he led her to their table. “Sorry to subject you to that,” he said. “It’s a necessary formality.”
“I understand. I know how Tween high society works.”
He squeezed her hand. “Soon this will all be over, and it’ll just be us.”
She squeezed back and tried to loosen the rock of dread that was sitting on her heart.
Somehow as the evening wore on, she managed to relax and enjoy the music and entertainment, and the food, which was delectable. Cressida delivered the business awards admirably, hugging each winner with gusto.
Min kept her eyes carefully averted from the Council of Towns table.
As the time for his speech drew nearer, she could sense Ethan getting fidgety, glancing at the papers he’d brought with him. He’d told her he hated public speaking, so this was a big deal.
“I’m just going to practice my speech quickly,” he said, getting up.
She nodded. Soon he’d be up on the stage, and she’d join him for the announcement of their engagement.
“How long have we got? I’m dying for a pee,” she asked.
He laughed softly. “You’ve got at least five minutes. Just don’t do a runner, or I’ll be standing up there looking like a loser.”
“I would never!”
He kissed her lips lingeringly and she whispered good luck, then watched him slip away through the crowds, his knuckles tight around the pages of his speech.
Min hurried out of the ballroom, then down the corridor to the powder room. Having relieved her bladder, she reapplied her lipstick and left.
She’d barely taken a step when a voice hissed close to her ear. “Minerva.” Harsh fingers circled her wrist.
She knew that voice.
It was not a dragon voice.
It was human.
A shiver traversed her spine. She tried to pull her wrist away, but Quentin’s grip tightened. His acrid breath was hot against her cheek as he marched her along the corridor, away from the ballroom. “Time you and I had a little chat, Minerva,” Suddenly he dragged her behind a large potted plant in an alcove. Finding her voice, she demanded, “Let me go!” She tried to tug her arm out of his grip, but he slammed her back against the wall, pegging her there.
“No more of that snotty little princess behavior,” he growled, his hands digging into her upper arms.
“Let go of me. I have nothing to say to you.”
