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Her hands snatched backward to her body, her fingers clasping together in front of her belly and the nail of her middle right finger dug into her palm, working back and forth. “My life has never been a fairy tale, Strider. Never. Not since your father and Mama June died.” Her words shook. “But she was the smartest, kindest person I’ve ever known and I remember everything she ever taught us. What is good and right and honorable. She taught us all of that. And she saw the future for what it could be, never mind what reality surrounded it.” Her shoulders lifted. “So maybe that’s what I want to see. Her hope. Her hope for you. Her hope for me.”
Silence. Only a bored stare from his eyes.
She looked down from Strider’s impenetrable stone countenance to the plate before her.
What had she been thinking? That she could invoke memories of the past and he would smile and declare how very wrong his life had turned and swear he would be a better man?
Foolish.
The food stared up at her, making her stomach roil. “Can we please inquire as to the readiness of my room?” She unclasped her hands and pushed the plate of food away from her. “I’m feeling ill.”
{ Chapter 7 }
Strider stopped in front of Pen’s door, tilting his ear toward the wood. It was so deep into the night they were only hours from dawn. He’d woken when he’d heard footsteps thudding in the hallway and he didn’t care for it. Not when they were outside of Pen’s room.
Silence.
She was sleeping, of course.
Sleeping peacefully, as only those who’ve solely known good could.
Anger spiked down his back. He’d seen the judgement in her eyes at dinner. How horrified she’d been when he’d admitted to killing. To revenge.
He was the worst kind of human now. He knew it and better for her to be well-aware of that fact as well. He would never again be the boy that she once knew. The one that had once dreamed of valor and courage and to follow in his father’s brave footsteps. His father had been exiled from his family—true, but he’d had the convictions to stand by what he loved—Strider’s mother. Him. A man of unimpeachable honor.
Strider shook his head. Thoughts like that hadn’t entered his head in seventeen years. Blasted woman. Pen had been back in his life for a mere fortnight and he couldn’t control his memories—couldn’t block everything that needed to remain sequestered in the back of his skull. It was the only way to stay sane. Stay in the moment. Move forward without regard to right or wrong.
He turned from her door, set to go back to his room, then spun back, his fingers tapping on the side of his thigh.
His mind would rest easier if he couldseeher sleeping.
As quietly as he could, he slid the extra key in the lock to her room that he had gotten from the innkeeper and cracked open the door. He didn’t want to startle her awake and have her see him in her room with only the loose lawn shirt and trousers he’d bothered to drag on.
Poking his head past the door, he scanned the room. Darkness filled the corners, but the drapery had been drawn away from the window and the low half-moon sent a silvery glow to the room. There. The bed.
The empty bed.
All of his muscles tightened and he opened the door fully, stepping into the room. The blood pounded faster and faster in his head as he searched the corners of the room. Empty. All of it empty.
A flailing wild hope had him checking under the bed just in case.
No Pen.
He whipped around.
Where in the hell was she?
He ran out into the hall, speeding down the corridor and banging on all the other four doors of the rooms on that level. Shoving the bleary-eyed people aside, he charged, one-by-one, into each room and checked it.
No Pen.
Frantic, he tore down the stairs and repeated the search on the floor beneath them.
No Pen.
Just angry guests, ready to attack him.
He ignored each threat flying his way and ran down to the last floor of rooms above the dining area. A repeat of the upper floors.
