Ilarion turned his head, spearing Oleksei with his gaze.

"Easy to say."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting on his forearm.

"Hindsight makes a saint, doesn't it."

He felt Oleksei's hand on the back of his head, worrying his short, pale hair. It struck him as unusual, out of Taras's range, that kind of physical display.

Lasha studied him intensely, even through the hard haze of drink.

"But let's not gild the lily. If he'd told me..."

I'd have been bound and determined to set him free from his own bleeding heart.

"I probably would have done the same thing."

The taste of admission was bitter.

Lasha knew he was no saint.

He knew how to get rid of wives, after all. He'd learned from the best.