Page 12

His smile deepens.

Oh, he knows.

Of course he knows.

Thousands of years trapped in stone, and apparently his ego survives completely intact.

“Then you find me pleasing.”

“I find you in desperate need of pants.”

“That was not a denial.”

“It wasn’t an invitation, either.”

He inclines his head. “I shall remember the distinction.”

I fold my arms, immediately regretting it when his eyes flick toward my chest.

Not crudely.

Almost curiously.

As though he’s trying to understand something.

“What?” I demand.

“You’re cold.”

“Oh.” I glance down at my rain-soaked dress. “Yes. Because there’s a thunderstorm happening, in case you missed it.”

He looks toward the sky.

The rain is still falling beyond the courtyard, but somehow not a single drop touches us.

I hadn’t even noticed.

He raises one hand.

The rain stops completely.

Just like that.

No gradual slowing. No final patter against the leaves.

Silence.

I stare at the sky.

Then at him.

“Okay, that’s a pretty impressive party trick.”

“I am a god.”

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

His brow furrows.