"It was this or let you faint in front of the duke," Cerys said, shouldering out of her breastplate with a metallic sigh. "A fallen prince makes terrible optics."
Serelith's lips curved. "Besides, the kitchens owe me favours after last month's aphro—" She caught Cerys's glare and coughed into her hand. "Herbal experiment. They were… grateful."
He moved to the table, drawn by the pheasant's caramelised scent. "I am grateful too," he admitted, slicing into the tender breast. Juice pooled like melted amber.
Rodion's voice flickered across his vision, text scrolling in icy blue.
Mikhailis carved a second, then a third slice. Your face is a moderate portion. He forked meat onto his plate, pretending not to hear the AI's exasperated beep.
