No.
The answer is immediate. Firm. Unwavering.
I am halfway to the door when the force of it stops me cold.
I turn slowly and level her with a hard look. She stares right back, chin lifting despite the tremor still working through her body.
Without another word, I move into my bedroom and go straight for the curtains. The cord holding them back comes loose under my blade in one clean slice. I return to the bathroom.
By the time I step out again, she is secured to the sink, wrists bound, cursing my name loudly enough to echo through the suite. A dull throb pulses in my shin where she managed to kick me before I finished tying her up.
As I leave my room, I make a mental note to replace her pointed boots with slippers. Restraints will be necessary. And a gag, judging by the volume of her outrage.
I have a million other things to do. Kahill will arrive in three days, judging by the distance of his thoughts. Yet, here I am…giving my finite time…and all thoughts to this wild, defiant creature I know almost nothing about.
Yes, I’m intrigued by her, but it may very well be my undoing.
Chapter Thirteen
Fight or Flight
The Chosen
The Horseman believes I am here against my will.
That may be true in part, but I will make the most of it. Little does he know that I’ve been searching for exactly this—an opportunity to get close to him and breach the inner walls of his home.
A slow smile curves across my lips.
He’s good with knots. I’ll give him that.
I work quickly to untie myself before his return. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve seen a great deal—not only the inside of the Sovereign Tuath Hall, but his private rooms as well. This information, if studied, could lend me a greater advantage. I’ve taken mental pictures of every area he’s led me through to map out my next plan of attack.
“For all damnation,” I mutter under my breath as I dig my nails under the last knot and pull. I yank. It gives, finally, and I’m free. The rope falls away, and I roll my shoulders once, flexing my hands to restore circulation. After leaving the bathroom, I stride into his bedroom. I head straight for the mantel and wrap my hand around the sword handle. The sword he left oh so graciously out in the open—proudly displayed over the fireplace as if it were nothing more than decoration.
Now, who’s the stupid one?
I keep the thought carefully contained. I’ve learned some of my sharper musings echo louder than intended, and I don’t want him catching on to what I intend to do.
If he was furious about his horse, what would he do when he discovered his sword missing? The idea sends a gleeful spark through me.
The great blade is heavier than I expected when I lift it free. Solid but balanced. I draw it from its scabbard and study it, turning the steel this way and that so light glances off its surface.
The crossguard is etched with scenes of a hunt—animals mid-stride, forever frozen in pursuit—and one lone hunter with a bow drawn taut. The pommel appears to be howlite or white quartz, threaded with silver veins and Celtic knots carved into the stone—intricate and deliberate, as if each line had been crafted with fine care and done by a steady hand.
In truth, it’s a beautiful, unearthly weapon.
I let the scabbard fall carelessly to the center of the floor, where he can’t miss it.
The windows are barred, but the balcony is easily accessible. Being seen is a risk, but not one that concerns me much. With the right route through the city—and a little chaos—I can avoid capture again.
This time, I will not be taken so easily.
Once both doors to the outside world are thrown wide, I step out onto the landing. There’s still the faint hint of death and the mild scent of burned meat from the market nearby, but anything is preferable to the dungeon’s mildew and rot, which clings stubbornly to my damp clothes and skin.
Behind me, murmurs drift down the corridor. Heavy boots press into the carpet. His voice—low, controlled—and another’s. One of his council members, no doubt.
They’re close and growing closer, if I’m not mistaken.
