Page 155 of On Brutal Thrones

Thorian's mouth twitches.

I look around the room again. “My parents.”

The teasing disappears.

“I think they would have loved this.”

My voice comes out quieter than I intend.

Thorian reaches over and carefully smooths a loose strand of hair away from my face. “They would have.”

“They do,” Talon corrects.

I look at him.

His expression is unusually serious.

“Wherever they are, they're watching you sit at the head of this ridiculous table in your ridiculous manor with three exceptionally handsome husbands.”

I laugh through the sudden sting in my eyes. “That was almost sentimental until the end.”

“I panicked.”

Fenric snorts.

Talon looks back at me, and the humor fades from his eyes. “They're proud of you, Nyx.”

My throat tightens.

Fenric squeezes my hand. “He's right.”

Thorian leans down and kisses my temple. “So are we.”

That nearly does me in.

I blink rapidly. “Absolutely not. I've cried enough over the last year.”

“You can cry,” Fenric says.

“No.”

“I'll cry with you.”

“Definitely no.”

Talon looks at him. “Now I want to see it.”

“I hate all three of you again.”

Thorian kisses my temple a second time. “No, you don't.”

I don't.

Gods, I don't.

The afternoon stretches around us, warm and golden.

We eat until I swear I can't manage another bite, then somehow Talon convinces me to split a fruit tart with him. Lyra tells increasingly exaggerated stories about the sack race. Fenric's brother eventually comes over to explain a game dispute, and Fenric listens with the solemn concentration of a lord being asked to settle a border war.