He stepped closer. Put his hand on Caelan's shoulder. The touch was warm — warmer than a vampire's touch should be, the fae blood running hotter, always hotter — and Caelan felt it through the layers of shirt and waistcoat and the armour he wore beneath.
"She is not Isolde," Lucien said quietly. "She is not Elenora. She is not going to fade or vanish or break because you care about her. She is the strongest person I have ever met, and I have met banshees, Caelan. I have met creatures that scream for a living, and none of them are half as terrifying as that girl when she is angry. The curse does not get to win this time. Not if you fight it."
He pulled his hand away. Stepped back. Raised the bottle in a mock toast.
"Now if you will excuse me, I believe I owe Valerius an insult. Something about his daughters and the frogs. It is going to be magnificent."
