Page 113 of Hateful Prince
“Mmm, it’s only champagne if it comes from that region in France, you know. Of course Blackwood’s blend would come from a Frenchman.”
Still a little unsure, I started to ask for clarification, but Hades leaned close and whispered, “They’ve mixed champagne and a Frenchman’s blood for her specifically. Spoiled brat that she is, she probably wouldn’t have accepted it if he wasn’t from the region.”
“Just because I have taste, you heathen, that doesn’t make me—” She stopped midsentence, her shoulders stiffening as she sniffed the air. “Blackthornes.”
“What?” I asked.
“There are Blackthornes here. I can smell them.”
She was as tense as a bloodhound, which was appropriate in a creepy way, her eyes narrowed and scanning the room. I knew the instant she spotted them, though I might have missed it if I hadn’t been staring at her so intently. Her expression didn’t change, except for the subtlest flare of her nostrils.
Following her gaze, I found a group of newcomers standing together in the hall, nine of them all together. But there were two in particular she had to be talking about. There was no way they weren’t related to her based on the color of their eyes alone. That, and they were staring at her with no small amount of shock.
“Oh shiiiit,” Oz breathed.
There was a blur of color accompanied by a slight gust of wind as the two Blackthornes suddenly appeared directly in front of us. I’m sure to the non-humans in the room, it didn’t seem sudden, but my eyes couldn’t track the speed with which they’d traveled, so for all intents and purposes, they fucking teleported.
“Auntie Sorcha,” the female Blackthorne breathed. “Is that really you?”
“Bloody hell, it is her, Rosie. We thought you were dead,” the man said, shaking his head in pure shock.
Sorcha flinched away when the woman tried to touch her. “Which one of my degenerate brothers sired you two?”
“Cashel,” the man answered. “My name is Noah, and this is Roslyn.”
“You can call me Rosie. Everyone does.”
“Not everyone,” a new voice interrupted. “I still prefer Roslyn, or wife,” he added, pressing his face into her neck.
“And you are?” Sorcha drawled.
“This is Gavin, my husband.”
“Gavin Donoghue, Duke of Canterbury.” He held out a hand, and Sorcha turned up her nose at it.
“I don’t associate with Donoghues.”
“Times have changed, Auntie. The feud is over.” Rosie threaded her fingers with her husband’s. “You’ve missed a great deal.”
Hades cleared his throat, pulling focus from the family reunion. “Are we fighting or getting along? I need to know so I can prepare. These clothes are too restrictive for a good old-fashioned brawl.”
“No one is fighting,” Noah said. “I’m Noah Blackthorne. Pleasure to meet you...”
“Cain. And this is my Dahlia.”
“Your Dahlia?” Caspian piped up. “Did you forget already? She belongs to all of us.”
“I am not a toy, Caspian. I don’t belong to anybody.”
Rosie’s voice was whisper soft, her head tilted toward her husband. “That sounds like a familiar conversation.”
Gavin chuckled, his expression tender. “We know how that ends, don’t we, petal?”
“In the sexy dungeon,” she quipped, firmly cementing my interest in their whispered conversation.
I should be taking notes.
“Tor?” Noah said on a gasp, his gaze fixated on my Viking, who had slipped into the shadowy alcove behind us. “Bleeding hell, Tor, is that you?” Noah glanced over his shoulder and called, “Sunday. Moira. Come here.”