Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer #9) - Karen Chance Page 0,142

powder—nice, by the way. As long as he’s dead, I wouldn’t care.”

“Then what—” I began, and then I got it, too. I remembered her passion after Louis-Cesare’s impromptu confession, and understood.

“Yeah, we are,” she said, answering my unasked question, because she was as quick as her father. She held out a hand. “He got me this. I told him I can’t wear it most of the time. In battle, a ring can catch the edge of a knife, and then there goes a finger. But I wear it when I can.” She shrugged. “It makes him happy.”

I took a look at her ring, and then whistled. I couldn’t help it. “Dear God.”

She dimpled at me. The feared creature of legend dimpled. “Nice, huh?”

“It’s gorgeous,” I said honestly. Because it was. It had two stones, a huge diamond and a gorgeous cabochon sapphire that looked like it should be the eye in a pagan statue.

A really big pagan statue.

“It’s called a toi et moi ring,” she told me happily. “You and me, because of the two stones, you know?”

I nodded.

She grinned. “He was worried that I’d be disappointed that it wasn’t a bigger diamond, but I like colored stones—”

Any bigger, I thought, and how would you lift your hand?

“—and diamonds are only a recent thing for weddings anyway.”

“Weddings?” I looked up. “Then you’re already married?”

“Yep. A couple weeks ago.”

“But . . . you’re not marked.” Her long neck, visible under the simple V-neck top she wore, was clean and unblemished. I resisted an urge to feel my own throat, where Mircea’s marks stood out clearly from the skin.

“I bit him.” She saw my surprise. “He never really had a family, at least not the way he looked at it. It’s a long story, but basically, he wanted to feel like he finally belonged somewhere . . .” She shrugged again.

And I felt a sudden surge of pure, unadulterated dislike. Not because of the trying-to-kill-me thing, but because of this. This . . . joy . . . radiating off her. She was utterly, blissfully happy with her relationship, and I was a horrible person, because I savagely envied her that.

You suck, I told myself.

You really, seriously suck.

And I did, I knew I did, but goddamn it! After everything I’d gone through lately, my own love life was as screwed up as ever, maybe even worse than usual. I’d broken up with Mircea, something that had absolutely been the right thing to do but that had left an ache in my heart that I couldn’t deny. I missed him, more than I’d expected. And the only other man in my life—damn it!

I’d spent weeks scared out of my mind, running after Pritkin, trying to get him back from Adra’s freaking spell and all the while being sure I never would. And then, once I somehow did, once that whole epic clusterfuck was finally over, what happened? I got one night with him and he disappeared with the guy who killed him!

Not to mention the fact that while I’d told Pritkin I loved him, he’d never said it back. Not once. And yes, he’d been busy battling crazy dark mages in supernatural Hong Kong while recovering from actually being dead for two weeks, but goddamn it!

I stared at Dorina’s ring, and it was lovely, but I couldn’t see myself wearing one like it. Couldn’t imagine a fairy-tale ending to my story. The far more likely scenario, assuming Pritkin didn’t manage to get himself killed—again—was that I was going to screw this up royally. And end up with nothing, nothing at all.

Of course, considering how Pythias’ love lives usually went, maybe that was for the best, I thought darkly.

“Are you okay?” Dorina asked.

“Yeah.” It was hoarse.

She looked concerned and went to get me a glass of water, which made it worse. I wanted to hold on to that flash of dislike, because she was prettier than me and she was happier than me and she was living proof of Mircea’s ability to get women to fall head over heels for him in whatever era he happened to be in at the moment. He probably didn’t even miss me.

And that was fine, okay? I didn’t need him or Pritkin or big-ass flashy rings that didn’t look flashy on her slender hand, just elegant. She could probably make a croker sack look elegant, I thought evilly, and then I felt bad some more.

Why was I like this? I thought, for what had to be the hundredth