Roa trusted her father. She knew he wouldn’t agree to anything that wasn’t in the best interest of Song. But what if this was some kind of trap?
Dax was the son of a tyrant. He couldn’t be trusted.
Roa pulled her hand free. Cupping Theo’s cheeks in her hands,she kissed him quickly on the mouth. Theo reached for her, trying to deepen it.
But Roa pulled away.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, hopping down from the sill.
“What? Why? Where are you going?”
Roa didn’t answer. Just opened the door and stepped into the hall.
There was no sign of Dax in the corridor beyond. Nor any of the rooms.
No matter,she thought, her footsteps remembering.
She found the son of the king on the roof of the garden shed. It was the place he used to hide from the bustle of Roa’s household when he’d spent summers here as a child.
As she climbed the ladder, though, a memory pricked her like a thorn. Sadness welled up and Roa lost her footing on the rung. The clatter made her wince, and when Roa glanced up, she found herself staring into Dax’s face.
His eyes were just as she remembered: the color of chestnuts gleaming in the sun. And his ears still stuck out a little too far from his head. But his nose—that was different. It was no longer so straight.
Broken,she thought.Maybe twice.
Again, that prick of memory. She thought she saw it reflected at her in his eyes. But if he remembered, he didn’t say a word. Just made space for her as she hauled herself up.
Dax lay back down, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows from washing dishes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I should have knocked.”
Not for the first time, his voice startled her. Like the rest of him, it no longer belonged to a boy but to a young man.
Roa stretched out next to him. “You weren’t interrupting anything.”
He glanced at her, then away.
The space between them filled up with eight years of things unsaid. Eight years of thoughts she couldn’t voice and memories she’d tried to bury.
How dare you set foot here,she wanted to tell him.
But Roa was a daughter of the House of Song. Her father had taught her to be gracious even when her instinct was to draw her knife.
Especially when her instinct was to draw her knife.
Roa needed to find out why he’d come. She decided to start small.
“Who won?” she asked.
“What?”
“Gods and monsters.”
“Oh.” He cupped his hands behind his head, relaxing a little. “I did. Of course.”
Roa glanced up to find a crooked smile on his face as he stared up at the stars.
“Liar.”
