Page 45 of Harbinger

I freeze as if it’s an omen, but Bishop gestures to keep heading down.

I glance toward the sounds of muffled chatter. “Where are we going? Isn’t the funeral up here?”

“It’s not for another hour,” he explains. “But if you want to go and make small talk with the early arrivals, be my guest.”

“I do not,” I say quickly.

He nods like he agrees with my position on the matter. “Then follow me.”

We descend into the bowels of the castle, which are teeming with staff and servants rushing about and making the final preparations for whatever lavish luncheon is to follow the burial. Bishop carves a path through the chaos with the ease of someone who knows his way through every passage in the palace. A few people pause and curtsy when they see him. Most immediately shift direction, not daring to get in his way. They’re so focused on my brooding guardian that they don’t notice me, and my nerves ease a little.

Unlike the upper floors, the spaces below are utilitarian, connected by a labyrinth of cramped corridors and low doorways. The air carries the sound of clattering dishes and the smells of roasting meats and baking breads. Bishop opens a back entrance and leads me into a small courtyard. It’s not the extravagant one viewable from my window or the snow-covered gardens beyond that. Waste bins line the squat brick walls enclosing the space; crates of empty wine bottles are stacked next to the refuse. Bishop continues through, heading for the stable complex.

“Wait.” I stop in my tracks, tugging on his arm. “Seriously. Where are we going?”

“Keep asking,” he says dryly and continues walking. “It’s endearing.”

I refuse to move and toss at his back, “I thought we were going to the funeral.”

Bishop doesn’t break his stride. “You said that was a terrible idea.”

“Yes, but you didn’t agree with me.” I rush forward when it becomes clear that he’s not going to stop.

“Oh, I agree with you.” He heads into a carriage house. “Like I said, everyone will be at the funeral.”

Before I can ask him what the hell is going on, there’s a laugh from somewhere deeper in the building, followed by distant footsteps.

“What a way to start a war,” a male voice sneers.

My heart jumps into my throat, but Bishop is already backing closer, his arm extended protectively in front of me.

Another voice answers, “I’m just glad it’s no one important. No one will miss an Icaros.”

“Don’t you mean a Ravenell?” The following laugh sounds closer. So do the footsteps. “I just hope the queen is more ambitious than her brother.”

“Doubtful, or she’d have been the one to hire us.”

A slight gasp escapes me, and a second later, Bishop has me pinned against the wall before I can draw another breath, one palm covering my mouth, the other braced beside my head. There’s nowhere for me to go.

“Don’t say a word,” he breathes.

Leaning closer, he angles his face over mine, his silver-blond hair falling like a curtain to shield me. The conversation continues, but I’m no longer listening. Bishop slides his hand from my mouth to the back of my neck, settling there like he’s anchoring me. Holding me exactly where he wants me. Even in the carriage house’s dim light, the silver rimming his blue eyes sparkles as his gaze dips to my mouth, the intention there unmistakable. He smells like leather and smoke and the faint hint of soap from his morning bath. I close my eyes, half in dread, half in anticipation.

His forehead grazes mine, breath warm against my lips, our bodies almost touching. He stays there, never letting his mouth move closer.

My heart races as the voices near. It has nothing to do with him. Even if he’s so close that I can almost taste the mint lingering on his breath. My skin heats, suffocating under his massive body.

Someone whistles behind us, and I know we’ve been caught.

“Sorry to interrupt,” one of the strangers says.

Bishop lifts his hand off the wall and flips them off.

“Move along. I’m not putting on a show,” he growls. Despite that, he dips his head lower. I arch instinctively, and his lips brush my throat without meaning to, blazing a trail of fire. Jerking away, I bury my face into his shoulder. Hopefully, our audience just thinks I’m shy.

“Enjoy yourself,” the man says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. I hold my breath, counting their footsteps silently until I hear the door creak open.

As soon as it slams shut, Bishop backs off, palms raised. But even with the space between us, my skin still burns.