Wren was three bites into her eggs, half-listening to Fenn discuss the day's linen inventory, when Kane set down his fork with a deliberate, quiet click that somehow cut through every other sound in the breakfast room.
"There's something I should clarify," he said, "for anyone still under the impression that my cousin is, in fact, my cousin."
Wren's fork froze halfway to her mouth.
Vale, seated across the table with his usual unhurried composure, arched one eyebrow with visible interest, the picture of a man who'd been expecting exactly this kind of collapse and was pleased to be present for it.
"She isn't," Kane continued, and his voice carried the flat, absolute authority he used for pack law, for battlefield orders, for things that were not up for debate. "She's my intended mate. I
