“What were you thinking?” He lifted Lorre’s chin, delicate and pointed; made sure they were eye to eye. “I can say it more. How much I love you. As many times as you want.”
“Oh, no. It was just…” Lorre’s mouth flattened, straightened, laughed. “My father would’ve loved this. He was only a baron—the richest around, mind you—and you’re a prince, even if the Marches aren’t that wealthy. It would’ve been such an occasion. Fields of gold, triumphal trumpets, overflowing feasts. What a conquest for him.”
Gareth, who as a rule did not generally enjoy punching people, genuinely would make an exception for Lorre’s father. If the magicians ever worked out time travel, he’d offer. Maybe only one punch. But hard.
He said, “It wouldn’t’ve been about him. It would be about you.”
“It wouldn’t—”
“I’d
