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“And you truly wish for her to be free of her family’s bargain?”
I nod, though it’s difficult with his grip holding up my chin.
It’s the least I can do for her—for anyone—before I’m either whisked away to the light lands by the iilra and Elden, or killed by Daein for the ‘abomination’ in me. That’s what Elden called it, anyway. An abomination.
I’m not sure I agree with that.
Halflings are all over the lands here. Mostly with litalf blood running through them, but even still.
Would Daein really see it as an atrocity we made?
I can’t take the risk.
I know my options are limited. So instead of fighting it and hoping that Daein will show me mercy for what I carry inside of me, I risk safer paths. Secure Terry’s freedom, then leave the castle with the iilra—not to save myself, but to hopefully survive in the light lands long enough that I might see this child be born, then leave life with a little more peace than I have lived it.
The prince’s sharp eyes consider me.
“Why?” His tone cuts through the warm air like a blade through butter.
So that I can die when my illness takes me, and pass knowing that I helped in the only ways that I could.
Of course, instead I say, “She won’t see her family again if she lives out the bargain here. And that’s even if she survives the dangers in this world. I want her to be free—to go home, when so many others can’t.” I blink at him, snaking my hand up to grip loosely on his wrist. I rub my thumb over his wet, smooth skin. “Don’t you want to do something that will make me happy—something Ireallywant?”
He eyes me long and hard before he releases my chin and my head falls back into place. He doesn’t hold me anymore; this time, he stretches his arms out over the sides of the washtub, leaning his head back and he looks up at the ceiling, though I doubt he really sees the paintings above.
I shift around to lean the side of my body on his chest. My cheek finds a hard spot on his collarbone where it rests.
“Think about it,” I whisper, starting to trace his tattoos with my lazy fingertips.
After a pause, he answers in a dark tone, “That is exactly what I am doing.”
“Oh.”
I fall silent.
Don’t want to spook him, to give him any reason not to gift me this one thing that I ask of him before my own bargain is up.
“You have the means to convince me,” he says, lifting his head from the spine of the washtub. He looks at me, his eyes darkened, wet tendrils falling over his forehead, and he looks both dangerous and divine.
My core clenches on instinct. I know that look he’s giving me, and my body has learned to respond—fast.
With a small smile, I grip onto the sides of the washtub and shift to settle myself on his lap. Water spills over the edges and onto the grassy floor.
“Like this?” I ask, the smile dancing on my face.
Lashes lowered, he watches me and gives no answer.
It’s uncharted territory for me.
The prince is the one to throw me down or shove me up against the wall and have his frenzied way with me.
Now, he watches me, his eyes like darkened shades of ice, and he keeps his hands rested on the sides of the washtub.
He wants me to show him that I want him.
It clicks in my mind like a closed door.
And it’s a game that I can play. Though, not without a bout of nerves.
