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I analyze what I see of him, even though it’s not much. He’s more than a head taller than me, but that doesn’t mean he is abnormally tall. By the standards of society, my five-foot-three stature is considered short. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s close to six feet tall, give or take an inch. He’s dressed well, sharper than a foot soldier, but not as nice as a Captain or General. His trousers look new, free of stains or holes, while his jacket, a deep shade of brown, hangs low, near his knees. It has no stripes indicating rank and no patches celebrating his accomplishments.
He’s a blank slate but not new to the king’s war. New soldiers wear green. But he’s not a Hunter, either. They’re rumored to wear furs over their leathers, and this man has neither defining feature.
I don’t know what he is.
The man runs the edge of his knife—a three-inch blade with a bright blue hilt—through the flesh of a pear, making a careful, calculated effort to procure a slice. He lets the fruit hang on the sharp edge, secured by the pad of his thumb, taking his time to enjoy the sweet treat. It’s nearly winter, so pears aren’t in season, but even when they are a single, half-rotten one, costs twelve Silvers. This one—brightly colored and ripe—probably costs more than a foot soldier makes in a month, adding to my curiosity aboutwhohe could be.
The soldier tips a slice of fruit toward me, and I wrinkle my nose at the offering. He’s a fool if he thinks I’ll willingly approach him with a knife in his hands. Then again, if he is a predator, he may be counting on myhunger to lure me into his trap. I am, after all, a woman walking toward the Red Keep in the dead of night.
I narrow my eyes on him, tempted to set a trap of my own. I don’t like men who prey on women, but I can’t risk unnecessary exposure. Not tonight. Not with so much on the line.
The man laughs a deep throaty chuckle at my response, then eats the rejected fruit. “So quick to judge me, sweetheart, and we haven’t even met.”
“Don’t call me that.” I snap, then force a smile.
My attitude might have sealed my fate if he’s a Hunter. A mouthy woman is a telltale sign of a witch, or so the Crown says. They say a lot of things to keep the women in this kingdom obedient.
All of it is bullshit.
“It’s kind of you to offer your…” Poisoned fruit? Death trap? Enticing treat most working women have never tasted in hopes I’m stupid enough to bed you? “Late night snack, but I must be going.”
I dip my head in polite gratitude and follow the path to the Red Keep. The sooner I can put distance between that man and me, the better. But as I leave, there’s a weird tugging sensation in my chest. I want to run to him and from him all at once. I don’t know what it means.
Maybe Iamhungry. I didn’t eat much at supper tonight.
Or maybe I’m just anxious to get tonight over with.
I’ve played the part of a lonely girl more times than I can count to attract the attention of my targets, but I’ve never been a working girl before. A woman in search of company controls the situation. She chooses who to talk to and how far to let things go before following a soldier to his bed. Whereas a working girl is at the mercy of the men in the room. They can touch and squeeze throughout the night,testingthe merchandise before buying.
The thought of someone’s hands on me makes me sick, but this is the first whisper of Graves’s name I’ve heard in three years. I’d almost begun to worry fate had stolen my revenge, but he resurfaced just as I was losing hope.
The glow of light from within the Red Keep’s walls is a beacon in the night. It signals my task is about to begin. As I draw near, my heart raceswith excitement, anticipation, and fear. The chances of Graves recognizing me are slim, but if he does…
I don’t want to think about what will happen if he does.
“Wait.” The soldier from the woods grabs my wrist and spins me around. He pulls me to him without my permission, and that thin thread of patience holding me back from revealing my capabilities snaps. My cover as a working girl may mean I’ll have to let men look at and touch me, but I’m not in the Red Keep yet.
I am still me, Khiara Hargrove, and I’ll be damned if another man takes something I’m not ready to give.
“That was a foolishly bold move, soldier.” I put the tip of my dagger to the man’s side and look him in the eyes. They’re a striking shade of blue, so pale they’re almost white. I’ve seen them before but can’t remember when or where.
Those pretty blues glimmer with challenge when the soldier realizes there is a knife pressed against his ribs. I expect him to push me away or maybe put up a fight. At the very least, I thought he’d have a snarky comment about howa fragile thing like me couldn’t be lethal. That’s a song sung by almost every target when they realize I’m there to kill them.
This one, though, takes me by surprise when he says, “You, little bird, are quite the creature.”
“A creature who has no problem disemboweling you.” I press my knife firmer into his side until the tip penetrates the cotton of his shirt, and a bead of blood stains the crisp white fabric beneath his coat. “Let. Me. Go.”
The man holds his hands up in mock surrender and takes a few steps backward, allowing a half-dozen inches between our bodies. That strange pull returns as he walks away, but I am too fired up to read into it.
“My apologies, my lady. May I escort you into the Red Keep and buy you a drink? It’s the least I can do for upsetting you tonight.”
I keep my knife pointed at him, my eyes laser-focused on his annoyingly attractive face despite the purple discoloration marring it. At first glance, it looks like a shadow stretching from his left eyebrow down to the center of his cheek, but this close, there’s no denying it’s something else. A scar or possibly a birthmark. Whatever it is, the mark doesn’t take away from his beauty. If anything, I think it makes him even more handsome.
Something he willneverknow.
“You’re mad if you think I want to share my evening with you.”
“I could buy your time,” the man quips. “I’ll be your first patron of the night.”
