“Sire. My honor to see you this eve.”

And then the doggen turned to the crowd and in his best, most formal voice announced in the Old Language, “Mistress Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, and the honorable Craeg, son of Brahl the Younger, bestowed of the King’s Award of Valor last eve for services rendered unto the royal court.”

A hush silenced the crowd, and then a ripple of conversation overtook even the orchestra.

Meanwhile, Craeg recoiled. “What was all that? I got what? They did who?”

Paradise patted his hand. “My father told Wrath you saved my life, and the King gave you a title. But I loved you just as much before. You were supposed to find out tomorrow evening—I think our butler got a little overexcited.”

“What?”

“Technically, you’re an aristocrat now.”

“WHAT.”

“Pay no attention.” She met him right in the eye. “It doesn’t change anything—well, except tacitly tell the haters to f-themselves.”

Craeg blinked and then chuckled as he looked out over the assembly. “Let’s do this, my Paradise. And then maybe we can find a private spot?”

She leaned in. “I already have one in mind.”

“That’s my female, oh, yeah.”

Stepping forward with him, she didn’t look at the crowd. They weren’t even in the room for all she knew.

No, she was looking at her fine male.

“You know something,” she said with love as they descended to the black-and-white marble dance floor.

“What?”

“I am the luckiest female on the planet. Right here, right now.”

Yup, she thought as his chest puffed with pride. She knew exactly who she was … and who she was with—and they were a helluva pair.

“I love you,” he whispered as he swept her into his arms. “Dance with me.”