But he subtly shifts to the left. Between me and Malachy.
“Did you invite him to accompany you when meeting with me, Lochlann?” Malachy asks. “Keeping him close, are you?”
Malachy holds Loch’s eyes for one second. Two.
He wouldn’t like that his nephew is trying to correct a negative press assumption about him. Is he pissed that I’m here, helping Loch?
Good.
“I’m here as a representative of my Holiday,” I try. “There’s nothing to—”
“Oh, I know very well why you are here.” That intent gaze oozes back to me. “To prove that my nephew is something he is not. Or maybe to prove that he isexactlywho the press thinks him to be.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t—” Loch starts, but Malachy clicks his tongue.
There’s something in the way Malachy looks at Loch. Like he’s holding a leash, and I have a sinking feeling that if he tugs even a little, Loch will go from a firestorm of stubbornness and personality to acquiescent and beaten.
I almost reach for Loch. To—what? I want that connection severed. Want that leash broken.
But Loch ignores all of this. “Why are you here, Uncle?”
Malachy flicks his hand dismissively towards the door before unbuttoning his suit coat and sitting back down. “As I said, I will see you tonight at supper.”
“No. You can talk to me now. What do you want?”
Malachy’s eyes go from his nephew to me with a shitty smirk. “In mixed company? Are you quite certain?”
Loch says nothing, an internal war waging.
Malachy’s face hardens. He doesn’t even look at me when he says, “You are dismissed, Prince Kristopher.”
How many times in my life has my dad said that to me? Ejected me from conversations, situations, events, press shots, and I went, letting Coal handle it all. Dad’s mask of congeniality was always more convincing; Malachy doesn’t even pretend to not be toying with us.
My lip curls. “No. I’m good.”
The contemptuous glare Malachy gave Loch is now pinned on me.
Loch places himself directly in Malachy’s line of sight. “Kris. You do na—”
“I’m not just here because of the press situation.” I push around him, in front of Malachy. “Christmas has been removed from many Holidays for too long and we’re seeking to start conversations. To discuss what we all have in common and pool ways to fix issues that involve things like organization. Politics. Joy.”
Malachy nods. “Yes, let us talk aboutjoy.”
My heart kicks. But his amusement is a warning light.
Malachy angles his tablet towards us, swiping through screenshots of paparazzi nonsense. My arrival here. My apology. Photos of the race.
He stops on shots of Loch in the crowd during the fight, calming everyone down.
Air hisses out of Loch next to me. A pained grunt.
“Kris,” he whispers. “Leave. Please.”
I whip a look back at him. His eyes are wide.
I haven’t heard himpleadbefore.
