Anger burned so hot that Sorcha couldn’t control herself. She leaned down, stuck her hand under a plate a passing waiter carried, and upended all the glasses onto the floor. The shattering made even the musicians shriek to a halt. They saw her now. The crowd parted, and she locked eyes with Fionn who relaxed on his throne. “There is a war on your doorstep, Wise King,” she mocked. “Or had you not noticed the blood coating your stairs?” “Kings do not fight in wars.” “No, but apparently Queens do.” She swiped at the blood on her cheek and pointed at him with a hand that dripped seawater. “I have
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Sorcha is the best.
