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It is an unfamiliar sensation.

My cheeks feel strange.

My mouth refuses to remain still.

For centuries, men have trembled before me. Kings have begged for mercy. Entire armies have abandoned their weapons at the mere mention of my name.

Yet this tiny mortal woman, who possesses neither sword nor shield, has somehow accomplished the impossible.

She has made the God of Wrath happy.

Wren turns.

Stops.

And nearly drops the spoon.

“Oh!”

Her gaze travels over my chest.

Then lower.

Then back to my face.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“I was not sleeping.”

“Of course not. Gods probably don’t need sleep.”

“We do not.”

“So you spent the entire night sitting outside my bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“That’s both incredibly sweet and mildly concerning.”

I consider this.

“I have been called worse.”

She grins.

Then her eyes narrow.

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“Your mouth moved.”

“A muscle spasm.”