Page 17 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
I figured. How did you get my number?
Unknown
From the annulment paperwork.
The failed annulment your father sabotaged, he should have said.
Nia threw her phone onto her chair and grabbed the coffee that looked like her usual order from The Goblin Grind. One sip of the iced quad with orange, caramel, and cardamom, and her headache began to ease. She glared at her phone, sitting innocently on the leather. It wasn’t Lochlan’s fault today didn’t work out. In a way, it was her fault he was caught up in this mess with her father.
And his fault she was beginning to feel better.
She sighed, grabbed her phone, and quickly typed a reply.
Me
Thank you.
CHAPTER 7
Lochlan
“HAND-FASTED BY ACCIDENT? HERE’S WHAT TO DO NEXT.” —A LEGAL THREAD
Lochlan sat on a barstool, the kind that wobbled if you shifted your weight too far to one side. Gulls squawked outside of Drift, and the low murmur of conversation filled the small, nautical bar. It smelled like sea salt, fried food, and old beer. The kind of place that would soon be crowded with fishermen, tourists, and Videt staff grabbing a quick lunch.
As Lochlan stared at Nia’s text, the familiar surroundings of the bar faded away.
Nia
Thank you.
He had to play it cool. Ordering lunch from three different restaurants was already pushing it—and then four coffees, just to conceal the fact there were a few things he’d noticed before the previous night. Like how she was usually holding a Goblin Grind coffee cup, or how she’d mentioned her favorite order in an interview a few months back.
Me
You’re welcome.
Lochlan was married, and his wife was desperate to end it. This was, he had to admit, in keeping with the broader themes of his life. No one had wanted him—not his mother, not his family—and he would spend the next six weeks proving to Nia’s father that she didn’t want him, either.
Unless he did something else.
He rubbed his face, still struggling to process the whirlwind of the past twelve hours. As his beer warmed and the fish and chips cooled, a torrent of thoughts flooded his mind. An improbable number of his relatives had died in strange accidents. He was now third in line for the throne, after his brother and sister.
He still hadn’t reached out to his mother. What would he say? I’m sorry for your loss? Why didn’t you tell me? Why do you hate me?
Becket took the seat next to him with a groan, ice pack pressed firmly against his forehead, and Lochlan was thankful for the interruption.
“It’s not every day you get mind-fucked by The Sword,” Becket said. “Should I feel honored?”
“No,” Lochlan answered immediately.
His friend slapped his back, sloshing the beer Lochlan was trying to drink.
“You got fucked the most. There was fucking, right?”
“There was not.”
“Well, at least she’s pretty.”
