WINTER

Cressida is smiling at my mate, peeking up at him from beneath her lashes as though she has every right in the world to do so. Valtor doesn’t even notice. He’s speaking to someone across the table, completely oblivious to who’s serving his wine. He’s never cared about such trivialities.

But I care.

And jealousy coils through me as a rope pulled tight, biting deep.

Why not any of the dozens of maids who are supposed to handle this? What is Cressida even doing here in ...