Page 69 of The Hood and his Thief

Nate stood on the far side of the bed, knives drawn and a snarl on his face. Ansel had his wrist bow raised, pointed squarely at Nate. One bolt already quivered in the wall just over Nate’s ear, the glass shade of a decorative sconce that had been there shattered on the ground.

“Stop!” Rhosyn shouted, throwing up her hands.

Nate froze, his gaze darting to her for a split second and then back to the threat before him. In one movement, Rhosyn stepped between them and ripped her hood back so Nate could see her face.

“It’s me,” she said. For half a second, everybody was still and Rhosyn stood frozen at the sight of the assassination again. Nate’s eyes flickered gold in the lamplight, and her heart stuttered at the reminder of how truly dangerous he could be, even though she had never before been on the receiving end of his blade.

“We’re here to ask for help.” Rhosyn raised her hands to communicate that they came in peace, giving Nate a chance to feel her intentions.

Nate moved so fast Rhosyn couldn’t react. His knives clattered to the floor and he crossed the room in two strides, before his arms came around her with enough force to knock the wind out of her. Still, he squeezed relentlessly, lifting her feet off the ground.

Rhosyn’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, and for a moment, she was just a girl again, desperately holding onto one of the only people who had been able to make her feel safe in a city torn apart by hate.

She made a sound that was half chuckle half sob. “Nate, you’re going to break my ribs if you keep on like this.”

He put her on her feet and promptly punched her in the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but still enough to mean business. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Rhosyn rubbed her shoulder and grimaced. “I would rather not have done it the first time.”

Nate looked over her shoulder to where Ansel stood just behind her, weapon lowered, watching the reunion.

“You’re lucky your friend missed, or I might have hurt him before you stopped me,” Nate grumbled as he gestured to the bolt in the wall.

“I didn’t miss,” Ansel retorted, pulling his hood back now as well. “It’s called a warning shot.”

The two eyed each other appraisingly, each puffing out their chests and squaring their shoulders. Rhosyn resisted scolding them for their posturing by reminding them that she had beat both of them in a fist fight at one point or another.

“Nate, this is Ansel Blakely,” she gestured between them. “You can trust him.”

“I take it you’re the one the Royal Police have taken to calling the Hood.” Nate folded his arms across his chest.

“I do have that dubious honor,” Ansel admitted. He opened his mouth as if to say more when a swishing sound came from the doorway.

“Rhosyn!” Contessa crashed into the room, still managing to have her skirts drift around her elegantly as she threw herself at Rhosyn. She hugged her around the waist tightly but briefly before holding her at arm’s length to inspect her.

A slight glassiness in her eyes and pallor in her complexion took Rhosyn off guard, as Contessa’s polished exterior rarely showed a scratch. Especially now that Rhosyn didn’t have the chance to knock her guard down by training her in self-defense.

“Sorry to stop by unannounced.” Rhosyn smiled ruefully.

Contessa’s lips pulled up at the corners slightly. Behind her, the rest of the tension in Nate’s posture relaxed. If Contessa’s Talent wasn’t signaling any danger, then he would be convinced that Ansel wasn’t planning any betrayal.

Contessa’s eyes darted to Ansel.

He sketched a small bow. “Ansel Blakely. I do apologize for the light fixture.”

With a frown, Contessa stared at the broken glass on the floor. “No apology necessary. Everything in this room is hideous. I’m just sorry I wasn’t the one who got to smash it. But we’ll be redecorating soon enough anyways.”

Rhosyn caught Nate’s eye over his wife’s shoulder and snorted. The gaudy wallpaper of the rose room was a running joke, but no matter how many times it came up, they had never gotten around to changing the décor in Contessa’s old bedroom.

“We’ve been saying that for years,” Nate pointed out.

Contessa hummed noncommittally before turning back to Rhosyn and Ansel. “Come downstairs and I’ll have Gregor make some tea. Although, I assume you’re here for more than a polite visit.”

Rhosyn’s gaze flicked to Nate. “I have an explanation…and some information.”

The four cups of tea on Nate’s desk were empty by the time Rhosyn finished her tale. Nate’s knives were unsheathed and spread across the desk, glimmering almost as lethal as his golden eyes in the lamplight. The metallic shink of a whetstone being drawn across a blade punctuated the heavy silence. Rhosyn wasn’t even sure Nate realized he had begun sharpening his knives, just falling into the habit as Rhosyn informed him of Mr. Gower’s treachery.

Even worse, though, was the complete absence of color in Contessa’s already pale complexion. Her gray eyes were as cold as ice, reminding Rhosyn the woman could be even more intimidating than her husband in the right circumstances. The twisting of Contessa’s hands in her lap, knuckles white against the blue fabric of her dress, gave away her distress, though.