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Amren stalked around Bryce, peering at the tattoo no doubt still glowing from beneath the material of her white shirt. “I can feel something in the letters …” Bryce tensed. “Get Nesta.”
Azriel murmured, “Cassian won’t be happy.”
“Cassian will deal. Nesta will be able to sense this better than I can.” Bryce turned, placing Amren and Azriel back in her line of sight right as the former insisted, “Get her, Rhysand.”
Bryce’s knees bent into a defensive crouch. How much would this hurt? Would she stand any chance of—
Rhysand vanished again.
Before Bryce had finished rising to her feet, he returned, a familiar female with golden-brown hair in tow. As she had earlier in the foyer, the female wore dark leathers akin to those on Azriel and Rhysand, and stood with an unruffled, cool sort of calm. A warrior.
Her blue-gray eyes slid over Bryce.
Bryce slowly, almost numbly sank back into her chair. Whatever was in those eyes—
The female said quietly to the others, voice flat, almost bored, “I told you earlier: There’s something Made on her. Beyond that sword she carried.”
“Made?” Bryce, caution be damned, asked the newcomer—Nesta, she could only assume—at the same time Amren pointed to Bryce’s back and asked, “Is it that tattoo?”
Nesta just said, “Yes.”
All of them stared at Bryce once more, expressions unreadable. Which one would strike first? Four against one—she wasn’t getting out of here alive.
Amren said quietly to Rhysand, “What do you want to do with her, Rhys?”
Bryce clenched her jaw. Even if she stood zero chance of winning, like Hel would she take her death lying down. She’d fight in whatever way she could—
Nesta jerked her chin at Bryce, haughty and aloof. “You can fight us, but you’ll lose.”
Fuck that. Bryce held the female’s stare, finding a will of pure steel gleaming in it. “You try to touch that tattoo and you’ll find out why the Asteri want me dead so badly.”
She regretted the retort instantly. Azriel’s hand drifted toward the dagger at his side. But Nesta stepped closer, unimpressed and unintimidated.
“What is it?” Nesta asked Bryce, motioning to her back. “How is a bit of writing on your skin … Made?”
“I can’t answer the question until you tell me what the fuck Made means.”
“Don’t tell her anything,” Amren warned Nesta. She pointed to the doorway. “You did your job and told us what we needed. We’ll see you later.”
Nesta’s brows rose at the dismissal. But she looked at Bryce and smiled sharply. “It’s in your best interests to cooperate with them, you know.”
“So they’ve told me,” Bryce said, fingers curling into fists at the sides of her chair. She tucked them under her thighs to keep from doing anything stupid.
Nesta’s eyes gleamed with amusement, marking the movement.
“Our … visitor needs rest,” Rhysand said, and gracefully stalked to the door. Order given, Amren and Azriel strode after him, Nesta following only after staring at Bryce for another heartbeat. A taunting, daring look.
Yet as Azriel reached the threshold, Bryce blurted to the winged warrior, “The sword—where is it?”
Azriel paused, glancing over a shoulder. “Somewhere safe.”
Bryce held Azriel’s gaze, meeting his ice with her own—with that expression she knew Ruhn always thought looked so much like their father’s. The face she’d let the world see so very rarely. “The sword is mine. I want it back.”
Azriel’s mouth kicked up at the corners. “Then give us a good reason to return it to you.”
* * *
Time dripped by. Trays of simple food appeared at fairly regular intervals: bread, beef stew—or what she assumed was beef stew—hard cheese. Foods similar to ones back home.
