Connor bolted upright, anchored by Ollivan from across the table. Riona had hurried up the stairs so gracefully, so normally, excusing herself as an embarrassing cough had overtaken her. Connor’s ears burned red. What if Riona wasn’t going to be all right? She’d drained that soup bowl with such enthusiasm.
No wonder the fae couldn’t take Drohoven.
“Her constitution isn’t like ours. She’s being overly cautious. Being in the rain probably didn’t do her much good.” Connor clenched his stomach as the excuses spewed out of him. Telling lies created a swell of nausea within him, a side effect of his incredible, but limited, truth-sensing power.
“We have had several cases of seasonal flu. Not here, in our establishment, but around Drohoven,” Tennly replied, trying to sound empathetic. “I hope I didn’t offend her. I didn’t mean to ask about the whole fae-blood-in-the-Islanders thing.” She still managed to phrase the sentence like a question.
“Oh. That’s not true,” Connor assured her, pointedly now that Riona was gone. “Common misconception, just because the Islanders are so…uh…”
“Handsome,” Ollivan supplied, as if this were inarguably true.
Speaking about the Islanders made Connor think of his father and he couldn’t bear the pain. He wrenched himself from Ollivan and scrambled out of the booth, trying not to disturb the remaining soup bowls...
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