“Foot, Raeve. Before the soup burns.” Bossy and a bad listener . . . Definitely needs to die. “I’m not putting my filthy foot on your mah’s butcher block, King Kaan Vaegor. End of story.” His head cocks to the side. “And I’m not kneeling before you for fear of being kicked in the head hard enough to knock me out cold so you can steal a blade from the drawer, slit my throat, and escape.” Valid concern, honestly. “Foot. Unless you want to keep your pretty anklets on?” he goads, and I kick the damn thing up on the stool beside me instead, tarnishing the surface with a smear of dirt. He glares at
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