But it doesn’t stop a frown from buckling my brow.
“Then why take such a risk on me?”
A broad smile makes it all the way to his eyes. “I saw something I wanted, and I had to have it. Damn the consequences.”
“Seems a bit shortsighted.”
“Quite the opposite,” he murmurs, grabbing my face with both hands, warm and all-encompassing as he looks right into me. “Let mesaveyou ...”
There’s nothing left to save.
I almost say the words aloud. Probably would if it weren’t for his hand now trailing down my neck, my arm, all the way to my bunched fist. One by one, he pries my fingers free, until Rhordyn’s pillow slip is tugged away. Then he’s stalking toward the fire.
“Wait.”
He stops and looks at me over his shoulder.
I approach, throat cinched as I take the slip, hand tightening to the point of pain. Like that same hand just bored through my ribs and grabbed hold of my heart.
Don’t think.
Just do.
I force my fingers to ease their desperate clutch … and toss it at the flames, gaze fixed on the wild blue flare in Cainon’s eyes, like he’s desperate to watch that little piece of Rhordyn burn.
I turn from the scene, knowing that if I don’t, I’ll drop to my knees, screaming and digging through the embers until the flesh melts off my hands and my skin finally reflects that of my unsuspecting victims.
Cainon wants me to be his perfect High Mistress? Fine. I’ll play the part. I’ll earn those fucking ships. But if either he or Rhordyn use me to spark this political tiff, they’ll find themselves at war withme.
And unlike them, I’ve got nothing to lose ...
Not anymore.
Towel bunched around me, I sit on the bed, stomach in knots as I work through my shoulder stretches. The contents of my sack is spewed across the sheets, the hilt of my wooden sword poking out, its leather binding peeled back an inch—likely from being dunked in saltwater and left to steep.
I reach for it, wrapping my fingers around the pommel. It’s cold in my hand, like it harbors the chill of Ocruth on a brisk, spring morning when daisies are barely peeking above a veil of mist and frosted grass crunches beneath my feet.
A strange tightness bands around my chest.
Pulling the sword close, my eyes narrow on a scrawled flick of moss green—the tapered tip of a painted vine swirled around the pommel’s tip, leading beneath the leather weave.
Frowning, I touch it, trace it, then pinch the binding’s edge and begin peeling it away from the tacky bonding substance.
With every unwinding twist, more of the etched vine unveils.
Splits off. Sprouts leaves.
Blooms little pops of purple that dangle down the hilt and make the backs of my eyes sting.
My wisteria vine.
It’s here. It’s been here this entire time.
I fall back into the sheets, sword tucked to my chest as I stare up at the rafters ...
A little bit of home.
I’m not sure where it came from. Who painted it.
