Darren looked a few years younger than Varul. Sandy-haired, sharp-eyed, with a scar across the cheek that gave his face an asymmetry that was almost interesting. But not as hot as my husband, my inner possessive b***h whispered, forgetting that she barely even knew the man enough to think of him as her anything.
Anyway, I refocused on Darren.
I had been around enough guarded people in my life — starting with my father in the years after my mother died, when watching someone's face meant learning to read what they were hiding — to recognize the quality of Darren's attention. He was not hostile. He was just guarded.
"You were at the wedding," I chirped conversationally.
There was a tick in his jaw. "Yes, Your Highness."
"You're my — Varul's second-in-command, right?"
"Yes, Your Hig
