Page 43 of Wicked Endeavors

“You think I don’t care?” Bas caught her hands before she could shove him again, his grip like an iron band. “You’re acting like a child, Leya, unable to see beyond your own feelings.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, trying to yank her way free.

“You’re not the only one who lost family that day.”

“I said shut up!”

“They were my family, too,” he roared over her. “Did Yoselin ever tell you that? Did she ever tell you that she was my half sister?”

Marisol stopped her attempts to escape. Everything in her mind had gone quiet. “You told me that you were from Esquivel.”

“My mother was.” Bas ran a hand over his face. “And since I couldn’t tell the truth, I turned her history into my own. The king insisted.”

Her mouth hung open. Her heart revolted against this information, and yet she looked at Bas now and she could almost see it. The dark eyes. The thick curls. The strong jaw. He looked remarkably like the portraits of a young King Oberon, but with darker skin and a fiercer stare. But it couldn’t be true. Yoselin had never said anything. She had never once reacted to Marisol’s stories about the kitchen boy who saved her treats and laughed at her bad jokes.

“Oberon had an affair with my mother. She couldn’t afford to feed us both, so she sent me to the castle. He agreed to take me in—as a servant. And to keep her quiet and me under control, he killed her.”

“He—”

“She was found in our old house, bleeding out from over a dozen puncture wounds. They never found the weapon. Because there was no weapon to find.”

“How—”

“He told me himself, when I asked to go home.” Tears glistened beneath Bas’s eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. “He told me that my mother was dead and that I would follow if I said anything to threaten his family. He had me tested, tortured, for magical aptitude so many times. Evaline kept the bowels of the palace so dark that no one would have seen me even if they’d heard me screaming. And Yoselin… she didn’t care. Why would she? She was seven years old and heir to the throne. She had her parents. She had you.”

Marisol’s vision blurred, and she realized that she was crying again. Bas had grown up in the same castle that she had, but he had clearly not had the same experience. He had tried to tell her so many times, but it wasn’t until now—after a perfect day, after nightmarish grief—that she felt the truth of it cut through her. If she thought about it, she remembered the many times she had been turned away from the kitchen and told that Bas wasn’t feeling well enough to play.

His grip loosened, but Marisol didn’t move away. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You were happy,” he said simply. “You were one of the only parts of my life I enjoyed, and I didn’t want you to live like I did, terrified of what each new day would bring. The more you knew, the worse they might treat you.”

“So you killed them? That was supposed to make me happy?”

Bas released one of her hands to rub his temples. “Leya…”

“You can make this about Coventry as much as you want, but you were saving yourself,” Marisol whispered. “You didn’t care about me. You never did.”

“If that’s what you need to believe, fine.” Bas’s other hand fell to his side, giving her the freedom to push past him if she wanted. “Stay loyal to a family that was running our country into the ground. I’m sure they’d thank you for it if they were still alive.”

“I hate you.” And this time it wasn’t a whisper; it was the culmination of years of loneliness and terror and rage, so much rage. “I hate you! If you’d told me the truth—If you’d let me help you—”

“You wouldn’t have helped me. No one did.”

“You didn’t trust anyone. I have no idea who you are anymore.”

“That’s rich”—his smirk was cutting—“coming from the girl wearing someone else’s face.”

Tears soaked the collar of her gown, making it cling to her skin. “You taught me a valuable lesson that night. I suppose I should thank you for that and for saving my life at the expense of everyone I care about.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“I know. Neither am I.”

It was quiet except for their breathing. There was a sob trapped in Marisol’s chest, but she smothered it. She had been right all along. Their friendship had just been in her head, and he had never trusted her with the truth of who he was. A Seaward bastard, treated like less than, tending to his resentment until the right opportunity fell into his lap. An indirect murderer, dodging responsibility by laying the blame on his mistreatment rather than his mistakes. She saw all of him now, and she hated it.

In seconds, she had her dagger—Sol—in hand, pressing it to the line of his throat. “You,” she hissed, “owe me your life.”

Bas didn’t even flinch. “I saved you.”