“Wonderful,” she gushes, squeezing my hand, wielding a smile so big my chest inflates with pride.
“I’m so glad you’re happy …”
“I’m more than justhappy.”She nods to the brush, and I reach for it—the movement slow and controlled.
Savored.
I ease around the table and gather her hair. Pull it over her shoulder.
The length tumbles down her spine, and I slide the bristles through her flaxen strands one exquisite sweep at a time, taming them into a river of silk—a motion that does similar things to my messy insides.
Tames that savage voice in my head.
“Long have we knelt to the stones,” she preaches while I brush.“Felt those words as if they were carved into the very flesh of our hearts. We have been true servants to the Gods, and they will reward us.”
My hands flex around the handle.
I should have told her the bad news first, but this hair … the knots …
Her hand whips back, snatching my wrist, halting my movement midstroke. She turns, looking at me over her shoulder. “You’re anxious. I can feel it in the way you’re brushing.”
I sigh—long and deep. “I have something …controversialI need to speak with you about.”
“Nothing leaves this balcony, you know that.” She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, out of my reach, and I tighten my grip on the brush. “I wouldneverhurt you.”
My hand loosens, the words soothing old wounds that may have stopped bleeding long ago but still boast scars that remind me of things I wish I could forget. Most of the time.
Other times, I’m glad I remember. That the hurt burns within me like the blaze of a fiery poker stabbed through my chest.
I clear my throat and reclaim my seat, setting the brush back on the table—bunching my hands into balls that I rest on my bouncing knees. “Orlaith …”
Heira tilts her head to the side. “What about her?”
Sweat prickles the back of my neck as I gather the poisonous words. “I want to keep her, if not publicly, thenpersonally,” I say, pausing. “Howeverthis unfolds.”
“Hold on …” Stark realization widens her eyes, disapproval thick in her tone. “Is the girl notintact?”
“I believe she is but can’t be sure.”
Her eyes become slits. “There arechecksone of the Brothers could perform—”
“No,” I snap. “No checks.”
Nobody touches her but me.
Heira grits her teeth so hard I hear them grind against each other. “Let me understand this correctly, my boy. You are requesting that we do not seek to understand the reasons why the Gods remit their favor should she fail the trial, and that we do notpunishher accordingly?”
I nod.
She draws deep, shoving back against her chair. “This isblasphemy.”
“I know.”
But there’s something inside me—a hungry certainty I can’t shake, sown since the day I first looked in those orchid eyes.
Orlaith ismorethan just a political pawn to me. I don’t want to let her go. If the Gods find her unworthy of being my High Mistress, I’ll have her in a different way.
Anyway.
