Page 56 of Wings of Destruction

I fix my stance and aim both eyes at Morgan. Evie fights, jarring me until my teeth rattle, but she’s secondary. A distant annoyance in the face of such pure unadulterated rage.

Morgan’s hands clench at her sides. Her cheeks are bloodless outside of the stark pink outline of fingerprints. Keeping a careful watch on her makes it easy to note the hint of jealousy flickering in her eyes when she’d accused Evie of sleeping with me.

Maybe I can use that, too? I certainly tuck the observation away for later.

Jealous. A spark lights in my chest.

Why would she be jealous?

Evie elbows me in the side when I’m silent for too long. “Get off me. I’m fine.”

I release her with such abruptness Evie stumbles before finding her footing. She tosses her hair, smoothing a hand over her face like I’ve smudged her prettily arranged features out of order.

“That’s no way to treat your bed warmer,” Morgan mutters.

Evie remains statue-still.

This is the worst time to laugh. Except I want to. I want to let the control keeping my jaw snapped tight release and bark out one of those thunderous laughs reserved for other people. Evie will hate me. Morgan will think it’s demeaning.

Which means my laughter dies.

Morgan hinges at the waist to retrieve the fallen book and limps slightly to the shelf, purposely showing us her back.

It’s a power move. And a brilliantly effective one, too. She lifts on the tips of her toes, supporting herself with the shelf, and carefully slips the book back into place before I catch a look at the title. Before I realize the shelf she plucked it from.

Interesting.

Would I have had the guts to turn my back on a group of people who want to hurt me? When the power dynamics are clearly skewed out of my favor?

I’m not sure.

“He’s not my bed warmer,” Evie seethes. “You know nothing.”

“She’s saying it to get under your skin and you’re letting her,” I admonish Evie softly.

“So?”

I angle in front of her, putting myself between the two women before one of them does something stupid.

“So, I’ve never known you to give someone else the upper hand.”

“Hmm.” That’s all Morgan says, a low moan of curiosity, before she limps past us with her shoulders thrown back and her chin tipped high.

She grabs her discarded feather duster and broom, tucking the former under her arm.

She’s more regal than anyone has a right to be in that shapeless servant’s uniform—like no matter how they try to diminish her, she refuses to be small. The fabric is limp and hangs off her limbs, purposely shapeless around her curves and too tight around the collar, as though the staff needs a reminder of who holds their leash.

Still, Morgan impresses me with her bearing and resolve.

Evie hikes her thumb at Morgan. “You’re going to let her speak to me this way?”

My eyes roll into my head as I compose and discard a thousand taunts. “Are you?”

“She’s a maid.”

“Then stop seeking her out to fraternize.”

It sounds simple to me. Evie hates simple. She hates anything shaking the foundation of her loyalist life.