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Leon floated into the kitchen and smiled, his face happy and dreamy. “What smells so good?”
“Sweet chili chicken.”
The smile on Leon’s face grew wider. “Soft tacos?”
“Soft tacos with sweet chili chicken and skirt steak, regular tacos with marinated shrimp and beef chuck, queso, hot and mild salsa, pico, both kinds, sautéed bell peppers, grilled corn, salad, rice, beans, and chips.”
Leon rubbed his hands together. “Serious question: On a scale from one to ten, how upset are you? Is it about a seven or eight?”
“Eleven,” I told him.
“Fantastic.”
Konstantin looked at him. “Why does it matter how upset she is?”
“She cooks to relieve stress,” Leon told him. “Eleven means we’re going to get all the food.”
I handed him the steak container. “Go make yourself useful.”
Leon saluted, did an about-face, and headed outside to the charcoal grills.
A sharp wail of outrage tore through the house.
Arabella rose. “That’s my cue.”
Konstantin glanced at me, a question in his eyes.
“Our evil grandmother is awake,” I told him.
“I’m going to talk to her,” Arabella said. “She likes me. All grandparents like me.”
“Don’t let her out of the circle,” I called after her.
“Catalina, I wasn’t born yesterday.” She walked off, humming to herself.
“You put your grandmother into an arcane circle?” the prince asked.
“Yes.”
The kitchen was quiet again. Just me and Konstantin. I finished the pico and put it in the fridge. I would need a dessert of some sort. Something easy. A pie. An apple and maybe a chocolate. Alessandro loved chocolate . . .
“One thing puzzles me,” Konstantin said.
“Mmmhmm.” Did I have any heavy cream in this fridge? And if I did, how old was it?
“You can have your pick of men. Any House, any country. Why Alessandro? What’s the attraction?”
I took the container of heavy cream out, set it on the island, and retrieved Granny Smith apples from the fruit drawer. This was a dangerous question.
“Why do you ask?”
“I find it puzzling.”
In my mind, Konstantin and I crossed our verbal rapiers.
“A few years ago, Alessandro was the god of Instagram. He is incredibly handsome.”
“He is,” Konstantin agreed. “And charming.”
“That too. Maybe I’m just smitten.”
“I don’t think so.”
Konstantin had rearranged himself in the chair. His pose was languid, yet elegant, and at the same time alluring. There was nothing specific in the way he sat that communicated seduction. It was the air around him. If Gustave Courbet was resurrected in this kitchen, he would’ve demanded canvas, paint, and brushes and refused to leave until the painting was complete.
This wasn’t a coincidence. He didn’t just happen to sit like that. Konstantin was a Prime and his appearance was as integral to his magic as my songs were to me. He wanted me to think of sex when I looked at him. It could have been simply habit. It could be calculated, or it could be vanity. Perhaps getting me emotionally engaged served as additional insurance. Perhaps he really was planning to recruit me to the Imperial side. That last thought was alarming.
“You and I are similar,” Konstantin said.
“How so?”
“We are both planners, forced into it by both natural inclination and circumstance. Our families have a similar structure. My older brother is a lot like your Nevada. Smart, competent, slightly scary, with a strong sense of responsibility. Arkadiy fully committed himself to becoming the next Duke. He is our father’s creature through and through. If he had any thought of taking the wheel and steering his life in any other direction, it has long been smothered by duty and destiny. He loves me and cares for me. Although I don’t know if he does it out of genuine affection or because that’s what an older brother should do. Arkadiy strives to be exemplary in every aspect.”
I had no doubt that Nevada genuinely loved me and Arabella and not out of obligation. But this wasn’t about me. This was about gathering as much information about Konstantin as he was willing to give.
“And your younger brother?”
The prince smiled. “He is very much like your Arabella. Mihail never met a rule he didn’t want to rebel against.”
He pronounced the name as Mee-high-eel and as he said it, a little distaste slipped through. Not on the best terms with the younger brother, are we?
“Sometimes his rebellion is justified; other times I think he does it because he’s bored, or because he has fallen into a pattern and that is the way he is comfortable interacting with life. He has a temper, a real one, and the longer he holds it in check, the more violently it eventually explodes. He is two years older than you, but if our parents, Arkadiy, and I perished, he would run our House into the ground in six months.”
Arabella did have a temper, but she was also willing to listen to reason.
“And you?” I asked.
“I’m the mediator. I intercede and soothe. I listen, I flatter when I must, reassure when it’s needed, I threaten, I plan, I take steps, and so on.”
