Coal grabs me in an overly clingy hug, practically wrestling me to the floor. “Number four, how dependable you are; number five, how generous—”
“Shit, Coal—okay, god, I love you too! Uncle, uncle!”
He lets me go and is reaching to mess up my hair when Wren seizes his wrist.
“I am not above garroting you as well, Santa or no,” she tells him.
He missed that part of the conversation, so he squints at her, but slowly pulls away. “Understood.”
“All right. We’re traveling in five—four—” She moves back to the door.
I face Coal one more time. His teasing has helped alleviate my stress, like always.
“Once more,” I whisper.
He smiles. “Unto the breach.”
“Two—one.” Wren points at the door. The mistletoe, the staff, it’s all set up, and on a wave of magic that warms the air and lifts the hairs on my arms, the door opens.
Coal nods and I move to stand next to Wren, who holds the door open for me.
Just get it over with.
I step forward, hauling my suitcase. Wren snatches it from me with a scowl that reeks of how Ibroke etiquette.
The door shuts behind us.
And we’re in Ireland.
The foyer of this castle is older, more worn-in, than Claus Palace. The overall colors are weighted and dark, with gray stones exposed along the walls and floor, and panels of red-brown wood capping the high ceiling, a heavy background for an iron chandelier. The smell to the air is the musk of ancient things with something earthy beneath it, damp petrichor richness.
Off to the side, a half dozen photographers wait from Holiday tabloids, already snapping photos and mumbling notes into recording devices.
They’ll be at every event we do over the next five days.
I’m hit with memories of all the times Dad ruined our outings by using them as PR stunts. Image was everything: look how beloved King Claus is, look how powerful; look how irresponsible Prince Nicholas is; look how nonexistent Prince Kristopher is.
My nerves strain, twisting even more.
Will parading around result in the press backing off on their smear campaign against Lochlann, or is this playing into their bullshit? It’d die down eventually, right, if Lochlann stayed out of the spotlight?
“Welcome to our humble castle.”
An internal clench grabs my body at the sound of his voice, that lilting, upward roll to his words.
Opposite the door, at the edge of the foyer, Lochlann waits, bookended by two women. I fight to keep my eyes on his, but unwittingly, I dip down, taking in his choice of outfit in one quick swoop. He’s in a corded ivory wool sweater, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I know its intent is to represent his home, but all I can think is that he’s trying to look like a ginger Chris Evans fromKnives Out.
Hedoeslook like a ginger Chris Evans fromKnives Out.
Motherfucker.
His pants are simple, brown, and he has no other touches of color on him, and I hate that Wren tried to bridge our differences through my outfit. I should’ve come in roaring Christmas absurdity. Red and gold and candy canes and a star on my head. Oh shit, I should’ve worn a terrible sweater withtinselon it—god, missed opportunity, massively.
Lochlann tips his head when my eyes return to his, victory flashing across his face, like I lost a power play.
I channel my reaction into clenching my fists, not constricting my face, which remains smooth, pleasant.
What are the odds he’s forgotten I called him hot?
