Turning her head, she tracks the people milling about beneath the mail tree.
The cleft between us seems insurmountable. Regardless, I try. “I watched you climb down that building like you had nothing to lose ...”
No answer, but there’s acknowledgement in her silence.
She finally blinks, breathing deep before she meets my eyes and tosses my blade to the ground. It clatters into the space between us, and there’s a challenge in her stare. For some reason, it thrills me to the core—the way she looks at me like she’s unbreakable. But it also frightens me because she’s not.
Far from it.
I bend a knee, pick up my blade, and stab it in my sheath.
She doesn’t drop her chin—just watches me down the line of her nose, lashes dipped so low her eyes are nothing but lilac slits.
“How long are you here for, Rhordyn?”
“Until I get what I came for.”
“The ships.”
I don’t bother correcting her.
“Well, I need you to stay out of my way.”
I push up, towering over her as violence surges inside me.
Can’t. Won’t.
She glances at her bag, releasing a deep sigh before she bends and picks it up, tucking her blade inside. Turning, she moves toward the churning crowd on bare, silent steps.
“Orlaith.”
She pauses. “What?”
I reach into the pocket of my cloak, retrieving a heavy pouch I toss in her direction. Her hand whips up, and she snatches it without breaking her stare on the crowd, keeping her back to me. I hear the drawstring loosen, see her head drop the slightest bit. She half turns, looking at me over her shoulder, her eyes like purple gemstones starved of light as she cradles the yawning pouch in her palm. “What’s this?”
“Enough coin to buy every shop in the square and still leave you with plenty left over.”
Her face twists with a fury so potent I taste it on my next breath. “I’m not your problem anymore. I don’t want your charity.”
Never my problem.
Always my tragic ever after.
“It’s not charity, Milaje.” I step forward. “That shopkeeper short-handed you. I simply remedied the situation.”
“Remedied the—” Her eyes widen, and her sun-soaked skin seems to lose its healthy pallor.
I can see the question in her eyes.
What did you do?
Little does she know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
Except let her go.
She clears her throat, gaze dropping to the small sack of gold. “I remember finding that pickaxe on the end of my bed along with the matching hammer and chisel. At the time, I thought it came from Baze. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Is there something you want to ask me, Milaje?”
