Page 38 of The Heart Trials

“Maybe he likes you.”

I am about to respond when the doors to the hall open. Heads turn in that direction, expecting another announcement that time is nearly up.

But Dorian enters, grabbing a plate.

13

Dorian’s gaze finds me immediately as he approaches the food table.

“No,” I say, revolted all over again by how he tried to convince me to marry him.

“What?” Mae asks.

“I know him.”

“That guy?” She points at Dorian, who is fixing his gloves at the food table. His hair is tied back, as it was yesterday when he conveniently didn’t mention that he’d entered the tournament.

“Yes,” I say. “He’s Saltblood. An oddly sentimental variant.”

“Really?” She slides to the edge of her seat.

“He asked me to marry him.”

She deflates.

“I said no,” I clarify. “He’s yours if you want him.” I hope he is not here to try to change my mind.

I leave her there and corner Dorian as he is piling another slice of meat onto his plate. “You lying snake,” I whisper.

The dopey smile he came in with is gone. He leaves the line.

I follow him. “You wanted to marry me yesterday and you knew your name was in the tournament?” I say. “You knew you’d been picked by the time I saw you!”

His jaw works. “If you said yes, I was going to drop out.”

“So you’re here now to do what, force my hand?”

Him being here screws everything up. I’m supposed to be pretending to fall in love with someone. What if he can tell I’m faking it? We’re not exactly strangers. He could ruin everything.

“Actually, no,” he says. “You made yourself clear. I’ve moved on.”

I don’t believe my ears. He wanted to make children with me yesterday. “You’ve just changed your mind, suddenly, and your heart is wide open?” I say. “Ready to find the love of your life here?”

“Is that so wrong, Axira? For me to hedge my bets to try to find something that makes me happy? I wanted it to be you, yes. But I don’t anymore. This gets me out of the forced choice when I make nineteen years in a few days. This gives me more time, a different group to choose from.”

“You’re still being forced to pick,” I say.

“It’s not the same. Here everyone wants to find love. They want the same things I want. Don’t I deserve to be with someone who wants to be with me?”

“That’s what you think you’re going to find here? In some forced-proximity mating competition?”

He didn’t grow up skipping through flower fields like Mae with a father who preached hope and love. He grew up doors down from me, cleaning out storm drains, flood-trench digging, scraping barnacles off the sea wall. I thought he’d know like I know: Nothing the Skyborn offer is ever as good as it seems.

He stiffens. “Do you hear yourself?”

I sigh. “I just meant, you know the Benevolent is not—” I look around. Dorian’s jaw hardens, his gaze darting too. I don’t have to finish; he knows what I’m going to say. There are two types of lowborn: those who snatch up Heartfillers at every chance they get, singing the Benevolent’s praises, grateful for whatever he gives us because they’re hooked on the feel-good. And then there are the others, who are sick of aching tummies and burying our sick.

Most are the former, but I thought at least Dorian was like me. I hug myself and whisper, “Dorian, people die in this tournament.” Mae doesn’t believe me. But he should be wiser.