He hadn’t seen her dressed like this in ages. Her glossy braided hair shone in the hall’s light. Her eyes were sky blue behind her mask.

He pictured her wearing these garments in the Territories. Compared to the bare-breasted Nereids strolling Sargasoe, Melanthe appeared almost demure. Thronos supposed everything was relative—a startling realization for an all-or-nothing thinker to have.

Nereus told the crowd, “Everyone, partake heartily of libations, feast on rich foods, and fill my hall with merriment!”

Melanthe murmured to Thronos, “Libations? Rich foods and merriment? In other words, this is your special kind of hell.” She made him sound like a killjoy. She’d called him a killjoy.

He could be merry if he wanted. If it was so bloody important to her . . .

Yet with each new detail he registered in this hall, he became more certain that “feasting” would never be a favorite activity. He was used to action, used to searching for Melanthe.

Now he merely wanted to begin a life with her.

Once they’d seated themselves beside Nereus with formal greetings exchanged, the god snapped his fingers and two serving nymphs arrived.

They poured wine for her and ale for Thronos, again showing a perplexing degree of interest in him. Earlier, he’d noted Melanthe’s displeasure over this. When he’d felt her delving, he’d shielded his thoughts, wanting her to wonder what he was thinking about for once.

“My dear travelers, this is a time of celebration,” the sea god explained—to Melanthe’s br**sts. “Though a foe breached our walls last month, he didn’t seek any of my offspring! Only wanted to settle a small debt.”

“Felicitations, Nereus,” Melanthe said warmly, raising her goblet.

Nereus finally met her gaze. “And now I have new and interesting visitors at my table. My dinner guests have been so boring of late.” He stroked his lengthy beard. “I have to execute them just to salvage the night!”

Still smiling serenely, she asked Thronos: —Now do you understand the stakes?! We’ve come this far. I don’t want to die in Sargasoe.—

—I’m rolling with it, aren’t I? Even though his gaze has scarcely left your chest.— Thronos’s wings tensed with the need to lash out against the male, his fangs and claws readying to rend flesh.

As a demon’s might. But he bridled his rage.

“A toast is in order!” When Nereus stood, Melanthe coughed, her wide eyes on the god. What was she looking at?

Oh. Nereus was grossly endowed, so much so that when he’d stood, his member had swung like a pendulum beneath the thin fabric.

Melanthe gawked. —It’s his very own kickstand! You could snuggle it like a body pillow.—

Thronos clenched his jaw. —Got an eyeful?—

—And then some! No one will believe me when I tell them about this.—

“To our castaways,” Nereus said, with a grand gesture toward them. “May they find everything they seek in my domain.”

His tone made Thronos’s wings twitch, but when Melanthe elbowed him to raise his goblet, he played along. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of a threat.

—Drink it. Nereus can make you if he wants to.—

Scowling into the cup, Thronos took a drink, and found the ale . . . delectable. He’d downed the goblet’s contents before he’d realized it.

At once, a Nereid crossed to him with a pitcher, shoving her br**sts into his face as she poured.

Naked br**sts in his face, and all he could think was: I hope Melanthe is seeing this.

Lanthe would soon have to walk a very fine line.

She needed to intrigue and arouse Nereus, a debauched libertine. And she needed to do that without inflaming Thronos’s jealousy beyond his control.

Easy as easy pie; except it wasn’t.

When Nereus turned his full attention to her, she felt like footlights had just lit up. “Do you like your Sorceri wine? The vintner assures me it’s sweet enough to please a sorceress’s tongue.”

Lanthe took a sip. “Scrumptious! It’s not often that I get to enjoy it away from home.”

“How did you come to be upon Sargasoe’s coast?”

“Oh, it’s such a long and boring tale.”

—Boring? The hell it was.—

—Pipe down. I need to concentrate here.—

—Then go on, weave your spell. I could almost pity the sea god.—

She laid her hand over Nereus’s. “Instead, let’s talk about you. It’s not every day I get to meet a divinity.”

“What would you like to know, sorceress? Am I attracted to your charms? Absolutely. Next question.”

She grinned at Nereus, even as she sensed Thronos turning away, refusing to watch their interaction. “What enemy dared to descend on Sargasoe?”

“A vampire,” Nereus answered. “You might know him—Lothaire the Enemy of Old. I’d been indebted to him, but no longer!”

“I suspect half of the Lore is in his infamous book of debts.” Unfortunately Rydstrom was; he and Sabine had been hunting the diabolical vamp over the last year, figuring a dead leech couldn’t collect. As of a few days ago, Lothaire had been an Order prisoner, obviously escaped now.

In the past, Lanthe had considered the Enemy of Old to be one of the sexiest males in the Lore. But now . . .

Her gaze slid over to Thronos. He didn’t even act like he was with her, just sipped from his goblet, glowering at his surroundings. —Easy with the booze, tiger.—