Page 67 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

“If you’re wondering which of our women would best the other in combat, the answer is painfully obvious.” The steam from Night’s cup made his face look foggy—or possibly it was the effect of too much wine.

“Of course,” Malcolm said, nodding. “Hrafn is Vanir. Your bride, no matter how bloody, doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Ha,” Night scoffed. “My queen is unmatched.”

Malcolm shrugged. “But she’s so short and tiny.”

“So’s yours,” Night shot back. “Rain would have no trouble bringingyoudown.”

“No one’s denying that. It’s my mate who could best her. Hrafn has an aerial advantage.”

Night waved his arm like it was a weathered appendage. “Wings are like giant vulnerable points, begging to be slashed. Nothing a dagger couldn’t take care of. Especially one of Rain’s nasty living blades.”

Malcolm reached for his wine glass, realized it was empty, and pouted at it. “There’s only one way to settle this.”

“Don’t be daft.” The corners of the king’s silver eyes crinkled. “They’re both ancient and powerful. If the two of them fight, they could destroy my entire house. You’ll just have to accept that your queen is superior in every way to—”

“I have an idea,” Malcolm said eagerly.

“Perhaps you should have some coffee first before you enact it, hm?” Night said. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this idea.”

As though she sensed they were discussing her, Rain turned to look at them. With a taunting smirk, Malcolm shoved Night out of his chair, sending the cup in his hands flying. Tea soaked the front of his brocade jacket. The ceramic chipped against the hardwood floors.

Rain’s amber eyes burned, and her nostrils flared. She stood, hands forming fists at her side. Hrafn shot to her feet, and the two warriors stared each other down.

“It’s working,” Malcolm said gleefully.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Night sat up, grabbed a cloth napkin off the table, and dabbed at the tea on his chest.

“You mean if they fight, you won’t watch?”

“Of course I’ll watch.” His grin tugged on the scarred skin at his lip. “You’re still an idiot.”

Not wanting to miss a thing, Malcolm shushed him. Night made a rude gesture at him with his fingers.

“I’ve warned the marquess before about disrespecting his king,” Rain said, her measured words carrying across the hall.

Hrafn’s wings pulled up in a threatening arch, but then they lowered. “I see. It’s the Vanir in him. Fighting is affection to us.” She looked at Malcolm, and her lips twitched. “No blood. No broken bones,” she insisted.

Rain chewed her cheek a moment. “I can live with that.”

The queen charged at Malcolm. Night’s laughter filled the hall. Malcolm cursed. This wasn’t at all going the way he had planned, but he grinned at Rain anyway, amused in spite of himself.

Moments before the queen could launch herself at the Mad Marquess, Hrafn intervened. She flew in, wings beating at the air, sending a gust over the food, knocking down glasses and overturning the floral centerpiece, rattling flatware. She caught Rain’s slender shoulder and squeezed, stopping her just before she reached the table.

“I tried, my queen,” Hrafn said frowning, fingers digging farther into Rain’s cloak. “But I can’t let you hit my mate even though he’s begging for it.”

“That’s my girl,” Malcolm cooed.

Rain squared up to face the winged warrior woman. It would be the match that mastered all others, Malcolm was sure, and his pulse surged. Gods, he’d definitely had too much to drink. His limbs were full of warmth, and his head felt light.

“Hang it all,” Night mumbled under his breath, climbing quickly into his seat and leaning forward. “It’s really happening.”

Feathers ruffled, Hrafn glanced at Malcolm, who couldn’t stop himself from simpering. “I could hurt him in your stead,” she said to the queen.

“Well, damn,” Malcolm grumbled.

Rain considered her, head cocked. She nodded. “That’ll do nicely, I think.”

“Sidhek,” Malcolm cursed. His mate was right, it felt better in Olden.

Hrafn jetted forward and hit him with a closed fist. Her knuckles connected with his cheek, hard enough he was thrown out of his chair. He landed on his back, the king’s raucous laughter echoing in his ears.

As he lay there, three thoughts occurred to him all at once: He was completely in love, he’d never been happier, and he was grateful his nose wasn’t broken.

The End

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