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“I figured you would if you wanted her to know.” I study Zander’s chest intently to try to mask my lie.
He nods. His expression is pensive. “I’ve heard they can see things that we can’t.”
Find the gilded doe.
What has my father seen? Something about me, obviously. He said the gilded doe was looking for me. But Wendeline also said their visions aren’t rooted in reality.
“What else did Bexley say?”
“Nothing important.”
Those piercing hazel eyes shift back to me, and I know that even news of the seer isn’t distracting him anymore. He must sense the tension coursing through me with my lies. But which secret is weighing me down more? That I’ve tasked Bexley with finding Ianca, or that I’m a key caster sent to open a door and possibly tear a dimensional fold that will release a fresh army of monsters, or that Wendeline has been scheming with Mordain because of some prophecy that would see us together?
I do the only thing I can think of to distract both of us from too much consideration. I drag my chair closer, reach for the washcloth, and dipping it into the water, smooth it over his neck.
A sharp inhale slips from his lips.
“She told me not to trust anyone.” I smooth the soft material over his collarbones and his shoulders, focusing only on the feel of his body beneath my fingers, keeping my thoughts shallow. It’s not hard to do. In fact, it’s impossibly easy to focus on nothing but Zander when he’s around.
“That’s rich, coming from her.”
“That’s basically what I said. But the more I learn, the more I understand why you don’t trust anyone.” His chest is a canvas of smooth, unmarred skin, perfect in its sculpture. Warm water sluices over it as I wash away all evidence of sweat and dirt and dried blood.
“Everyone has given me a reason not to,” he admits after a moment.
“What about Elisaf?”
“Except for him. I trust him.”
“Completely?” I echo his question regarding Wendeline yesterday.
“Yes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
My fingertip grazes his bare skin against his rib cage, and he inhales deeply again. “Because I am the one who made him what he is.”
My hand stalls. “He told me he was attacked by an immortal in an alleyway.”
“He was. He’d been in the Knoll that night and allowed someone on his vein. We can only take so much before it becomes hazardous. But then the male who accosted him took more, far too much. By the time I came upon them, Elisaf was nearly gone. I knew he wouldn’t survive. So, I used my venom on him.”
“But you blamed the attacker for turning him. He was executed for it.” Zander is the one who told me that turning mortals was punishable by death no matter what the reason.
“Yes.” He studies my face a moment, as if waiting for my reaction to that admission of guilt.
I make a second pass over his prominent collarbones. “I’m sure you had a good reason.”
He smirks. “Besides not wanting to die?”
“You were the prince, and Elisaf was attacked. Neither of you would have died.”
“Maybe not. But my father would have felt the need to make an example of me. As it was, I had to fight to keep him from executing Elisaf.” Zander’s eyes shift from their intense scrutiny of my face back to the ceiling. “Humans are the literal lifeblood of Islor. We need them to survive, and the fear that the blood curse will take all of them from us runs deep, all the way back to the days of Ailill and Isla. Turning a human for any reason is forbidden by the crown. So Elisaf and I lied, and his attacker received the punishment he deserved.”
“And now you and Elisaf are bound by this secret?”
“We’re bound by the simple fact that I created him. I am his maker. He cannot help his loyalty. It is ingrained in his being. An odd side effect.”
“You’re his master.”
