Page 112 of Reign

Looking down, I realized my blood-stained tunic had been replaced with a clean one, bearing his initials—FB—embroidered on the cuff.

“She’s awake,” Fitzroy announced over his shoulder.

I slowly sat up, noticing Bash, Finn, and Fletcher waiting by the entrance.

Finn kissed his fingers, raising them skyward to thank the gods, while Fletcher pulled down the brim of his hat, concealing his eyes.

Bash stepped forward. “My liege, can I talk to Smith?” he asked Fitzroy.

For a moment, Fitzroy lingered, his touch gentle as he dabbed my brow once more before rising.

They swapped places, and Bash knelt beside me. “How are you feeling?”

“Disoriented,” I managed to whisper.

Bash inhaled deeply. “Are you Niamh?”

I held his gaze, the truth hanging heavy in the humid air. For months, I’d longed to tell him—but not like this.

“Would you feel differently about me if I am her?” I asked hesitantly.

His expression darkened. “I’d feel betrayed that you never told me. That you let me believe you could relate to the torment of my missing father.”

“I understand,” I murmured.

“It would deeply hurt if you’ve lied to me for all this time,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, taking his hand.

He quickly glanced over his shoulder, before returning his gaze to me. “Did Fitzroy know before today?” he probed.

I hesitated, but that alone answered his question.

“I see,” Bash mumbled, then withdrew his hand and stood. “Is Smith going to be all right?” he asked Fitzroy, who nodded. “Then there’s no reason for me to stay.”

“Bash,” I cried, struggling to rise. “Let me explain, please.”

“I’m not interested in your apology,” he snapped, his anger startling—it was a tone I’d never heard him speak in. “Not once have I lied to you.”

“Forgive me,” I pleaded, clasping my hands together pathetically, begging for his affection.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. We can fight side by side, but when this war’s over, we won’t be friends.”

My chest ached worse than when the arrow had struck as he turned and walked away.

“Carpenter,” Fitzroy called just before Bash ducked out of the tent. “Fix up the gallows. One man won’t be seeing sunrise.”

“Of course, my liege,” Bash answered, bowing stiffly before leaving with Fletcher in tow.

As I struggled against the tears, Finn sighed heavily. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Niamh.”

* * *

Once I’d composed myself, Finn and I headed for the gallows. Rain battered the encampment as hundreds of men gathered, eager to witness the hanging of a traitor.

Finn placed a steadying arm around my shoulder. “You all right?” he asked, looking down at me.

I nodded, but I didn’t meet his gaze—I felt anything but fine.