“You’re his ward,Orlaith. He had no children. No family.”
No.
No-no-no …
“But you’re hispromised—”
“A political pairing that was far fromsealed.” She pulls Rhordyn’s cupla from her pocket and waves it at my face. “This doesn’t mean shit for my people now.”
“I— I don’t want this … I don’t fucking wantanyof this!”
“Too late.”
Two small words that shackle me, adding to a thousandtoo-latecuffs already wrapped around my arms and legs. Weighing me down.
Rhordyn showed me what I really am. Kissed me like I was his salvation. Told me he would try harder.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late.
He said he’d show me the worst of it …
Too late.
Somebody had already shown me the worst and staked his death in the soil of my malnourished heart. And now that we’re here—now that he’s gone—there’s a voice bellowing in my ears, telling me I was wrong.
That I should have taken notice of the gray smudge between Rhordyn’s black and white. That I should have waited just a little longer. Listened to the words I snuffed on his tongue when I plunged that talon through his heart.
I flinch.
Too late …
Doused in the heady smell of my own sweat and vomit, I cup my hands against the window and peer through it, scouring the Inn’s murky innards. All the wall sconces are blown out except one behind the bar, casting a rinse of warm light over a broad man bent over the till, stacking coins and scribbling on a piece of parchment.
Sniffing, I edge around the building beneath the heavy shroud of a silent night, noting the Closed sign on the door before I grab the tarnished handle anyway, giving it a yank.
I feel the man’s abrasive gaze as I weave between tall tables laden with upside-down stools, lifting one off the bar and thumping it on the floor. I sit heavily, inhaling the smell of beeswax mixed with the rich musk of ale, hard liquor, and sugarcane smoke.
“We’re closed, son.”
“I know,” I murmur, pushing back my hood. I reach into the folds of my cloak and retrieve a pouch of coins, sliding a gold drab across the bar. “I’ll have a bottle of whiskey.”
Looking up through my hair, I note the deep gouge between Graves’s heavy brows. His fair hair is pulled back in a low bun, his neatly trimmed beard a stark contrast to his cruddy apron—testament to a hard day’s work.
He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “I recognize you …”
“Don’t.”
He watches me with shrewd regard. “Are you going to cause me any trouble?” he asks, his voice a gruff rumble.
Brows lifting, I hold his powdery stare. “Not if you get me that whiskey.”
With a low grunt, he retrieves a bottle of amber liquid off the back shelf, as well as a glass, and lumps both before me amongst a litter of pale ring stains. Noting a single black line—almost impossible to see—stitched through the collar of his midnight-blue shirt, I nudge the gold drab toward him, then pull out another and add it to the pile.
I sense his rising confusion in the tightening of the air between us as I pop the cork, wrapping my hand around the bottle. Heavy.
