Page 20 of Wicked Endeavors

“So they are,” said Bas, all traces of emotion wiped clean from his face. “Your gown is getting dirty.”

“No dirtier than your hands, I’m sure.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I would explain myself, but I’m sure you already have theories.”

He stepped back, allowing her to move from the dusty passage into the lamplit hallway. Her gown would be dirty from sweeping against the murky stone, but he had been the one to teach her about servants’ passages and how easily overlooked they were, perfect for navigating places unseen. Even without the help of her staff, he would recognize the hidden doors, and no one could ask him any uncomfortable questions if they didn’t see him coming and going from her bedroom in the first place.

It would have been a perfect plan if Marisol hadn’t known him once.

“Did you find my room to your satisfaction?” she asked. Her fingers twitched at her sides, eager to grab one or both of her daggers. But the adrenaline of getting one over on him tempered her bloodlust enough to stick to the plan. “I hope everything is where I left it.”

“I’m not as sloppy as you’ve made me seem.”

“You couldn’t possibly be.”

His smile flowed and ebbed like the tide. With the hidden door closed behind her, there were only two feet between them. His eyes were steely, but he seemed at ease even after she’d caught him, as if he’d already decided she wouldn’t do anything about it. Part of her wanted to prove him wrong, but the rest of her was buzzing from being close enough to see the length of his lashes, the subtle embroidery on his doublet.

The vulnerable line of his throat.

“I think,” she said after the silence had grown thick, “this will all work so much better if you just trust me.”

“Teo needs to trust you,” Bas said. “But this will all work so much better if I don’t.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll like me too much?”

He stepped closer, close enough to kill. Marisol met his gaze unflinchingly, daring him to give her a reason to draw her weapons. Her knowledge of the servants’ passage now felt like pure luck. She was being stared down by a stranger, not a boy who had once personally made her soup when she was sick.

“I’ve looked into your family, you know. You have no loyalty to anyone but yourselves. I was surprised when Lord Ruiz said you’d be working with us. He might be convinced of your loyalty, but I’m not.”

“What,” Marisol asked with acid in her tone, “do you know of loyalty, Sebastjan Arroyo?”

“More than a woman whose family didn’t even come to the Castellans’ aid. What did your parents tell you to justify their abandonment? How do we know you’re not witch sympathizers?”

It wasn’t even her real family, and yet Marisol drew back as though he’d slapped her. The boy who had caused Coventry to fall to witches accusing her of being a witch sympathizer was a step too far. Rage turned her tongue into a lash. “How dare you—”

“What the—?” Bas’s face went slack with shock. “Leya?”

Ice filled her veins. She hadn’t heard that nickname in years. How had he known? She almost touched her face until she felt the sag of the fabric across her chest.

Her magic had failed her.

Anger had eroded her control.

She stood in front of her target—wearing her true face for the first time in months.

In a single moment, she had ruined everything.

Gaspar would kill her. Worse, he would abandon her, would claim to have been as deceived by her witch magic as everyone else. She would hang alone. Again, it was what she would do if she were him.

Marisol surged forward, taking advantage of Bas’s surprise to shove him into her bedroom. Her suitcases still waited in a line by her bed, even though it now seemed as if she had packed a lifetime ago. With her back, she pressed the door closed, watching as Bas visibly shook himself out of his stupor.

“I didn’t know you were a witch.” His hand hovered by his side, over the shape of a hidden weapon. “What are you doing here, Leya?”

“You mean after you left me for dead on the streets?”

Bas’s mouth curved into a defensive scowl. “I didn’t leave you on the streets to die. I was—”

“I don’t care what you’ve told yourself, Sebastjan. I care that you got my family killed, and now here you are, probably about to do the same to Prince Tomás.”