Acatl woke up one morning and realized, disagreeably, that he was in love.

That doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it, he told himself. I’m a busy man. I’ve taken vows. And even if I hadn’t, this is entirely unsuitable. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine a more unsuitable object for his involuntary affections. No matter that the man smiled like the dawn and made his heart feel like warm honey—Teomitl was his sister’s husband, a dozen years his junior, and the heir apparent to the Mexica Empire. If he thought of Acatl at all, it was probably with brotherly tolerance. And that was leaving aside whatever his sister would think about it. Gods, it would break her heart.

“I think my husband is in love with you,” she informed him, and he spat his drink across the table.

When he could breathe again, he wheezed, “What?!”

She blinked. “He hasn’t been subtle.”

Well. He was still busy. This was still a bad idea. He definitely still shouldn’t be contemplating taking any sort of action.

But when Teomitl showed up at his door red-faced and flustered, mumbling something about having talked to Mihmatini earlier, Acatl invited him in.