Page 11 of The Faceless Queen

I let my eyes move pointedly back and forth across the room, like I was searching for someone. “She’s not here.”

“Even still,” he said, “I would not betray her.”

My eyebrows narrowed. “Do you love her?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean.” He shook his head again, and his fingers raked through his curls. “Gods. That’s an awful thing to say.”

“But it’s true,” I offered. And I was right. I knew it. He’d spoken too quickly, sounded far too sure of himself, and now looked far too guilty. Maybe I could use that against him.

“I don’t … love her.” He frowned. “But I mean to.” His eyes met mine, blazing like green emeralds. “And I mean to be loyal to her. I’m loyal to anyone I give my word to. Love will come. I just, I don’t know her yet.”

My heart pounded. “That’s quite gallant of you.”

“It’s no less than she deserves.”

Lucky girl.

“No less than anyone deserves,” he said, meeting my gaze again.

“Another one of your philosophies?” I asked and picked up the two wine glasses. “You must be quite educated.”

“Perhaps, though I imagine no more so than you.”

“You think so?” I asked, almost flattered. But he was right, of course. I had the formal education expected of a princess, and though I was trained by witches, my studies had been as extensive as any noble in House Lafir. My people weren’t originally from this continent, but we had been on the land for hundreds of years.

His lips lifted. “I know so. And I know that I like that about you, and that I like talking to you.”

“And I you,” I said, “Even though you seem entirely intent on denying me what I want.” Carefully I stepped before him. He was honorable, or he at least wanted to be. I’d give him that. But every man had a weakness, a chink in their armor. A loophole in whatever philosophy they subscribed to. He may have thought himself above them all—most likely for the coin he possessed—or whatever title he secretly harbored amongst the royal house. But at the end of day, he was still a man, and as far as I could see through the tightness of his riding pants, he was very much in possession of a cock. One I imagined functioned like any other.

It was only a matter of time. Much as I reluctantly liked him, I would break him. I was going to get what I wanted. I was going to find my way out.

I held out a glass for him, bringing the other almost to my lips. “Why don’t we have a drink together? You can relax. We can keep talking. Philosophizing. Debating.” I grinned. “And I promise you, no one has to know what we do after. Whatever that looks like, we can still enjoy⁠—”

“He was hurting you,” he burst out, his voice low.

My hands fell to my sides, the wine sloshing out of the glass and spilling onto the floor.

“What?” All my composure was gone. An icy chill ran over my body, and I stepped away from him, my heart thrumming. I barely had the presence of mind to set the glasses back on the table.

“He was hurting you,” he said again, shaking now with a rage I could feel, one so strong I could feed off it, could feel it surging inside of me, filling me with power. It awakened the Azete inside, and it wanted more.

“Geoffrey? No—he …” I shook my head.

“I saw it,” he seethed. “Saw him grab you, saw the look in your eyes. You were in pain. You were—” His neck reddened. His hands fisted at his sides. “It was my fault.”

“No, I—I was fine. Am fine. I …” Fuck! I had to fix this. I took a deep breath. “Gods. I’m sorry for whatever it is you think you saw downstairs. Truly. But I can assure you, everything is fine. Nothing happened between me and Geoffrey. Nor anyone else. I’m not hurt. Not at all. I promise you.”

“But you are,” he said softly. “I know what I saw. What he did. And I think,” he clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “I think maybe there are different rules here in the town, in the tavern—I mean—ones I don’t know. Customs I’m not used to, or don’t understand, because I wasn’t raised with them. But I know this much. My eyes did not deceive me. He hurt you. Because of me. Because of my decision.” His nostrils flared out, the muscles in his jaw working, before he took a deep breath.

I stumbled back a step, feeling too hot and also too cold, my stomach churning.

“I didn’t mean any offense in turning down your offer,” he continued. “Nor any offense in accepting it.” He swallowed roughly. “I just wanted him to stop.” He stepped forward, the firelight showing off the deep blue of his tunic, the shine in the leather of his boots. He held his hands open, his palms up in submission, like he was approaching a frightened beast.

I supposed in a way he was. Because what else was an Azete but a monster at their core? A shapeshifter who sucked out the life of others. A Demonos parasite always looking to feed.

“Samara, are you—are you all right?” he asked.

Suddenly I couldn’t take it. The intimacy of him knowing my name, of using it like he knew me, like he cared for me. Saying it, pronouncing it, just like my mother had.