House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(74)
That is all he says. No please. No explanation as to why he so wants me to keep my distance from the sailor.
I’m leaning toward a prophecy of some sort that’ll make me stray off my Bronwen-beaten path. “Why?”
“Because the sailor’s more useful to me in Luce than he’d be in Shabbe.”
My mouth gapes. Is he truly threatening to ship Antoni past the wards if he touches me? “You’ve got a fiancée, Lore!”
One who’d undoubtedly disapprove of the pathetic little show I just gave her betrothed.
Before I can react, he seizes my wrist and guides my hand back under the sheets. I’m so shocked by his move that, by the time I try to resist, he’s towed my hand well past my navel.
He leans over to murmur into my ear, “Your show wasn’t pathetic, Little Bird. You were just thinking of the wrong man.” His fingers slot through mine and bend until his blunt nails are flush with the lace covering my dark curls. “Well, right up until you stopped.”
My breath snags in my chest as he presses his palm a little more firmly against the back of my hand, forcing my thighs to part around our clasped hands.
“When I stroke myself, it is you I picture, Fallon. Always you,” he rasps. “Only you.”
I choke on my next inhale, then proceed to wheeze when the blunt nail of his middle finger digs into the lace until my lips part for him. He runs the tip of his nose down the side of my neck, and I shiver so hard that goosebumps burst over my skin.
What little dignity I’m still in possession of makes me yank our hands off my underwear and out from under the sheets. “Stop.” I snatch my hand from beneath his and cast my eyes on the flickering wick of my lantern that casts the Sky King in more shadows than light. “Don’t toy with me, Lore. It’s unfair to your fiancée, and it’s unfair to me.”
He sighs. “As soon as I return from Nebba, you and I will have a little talk.”
“We have many little talks.”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Well, we’re due for another.”
“About?”
“About us, Behach ?an.”
Us. There is no us. There’s only him and Alyona.
He studies my face, probably studying my thoughts.
“I’m not interested in being the other woman, Lore.”
I don’t miss the corners of his mouth tipping up right before he shifts to smoke and merges with the shadows of my bedroom.
I’m serious, Lore.
You looked it, Behach ?an.
I cross my arms at his reply.
Reminded me a lot of your father, actually. You’ve the same vertical groove between your eyebrows when overtaken by the desire to throttle me.
I raise my hand to my face and, sure enough, feel the slim indent between my gathered eyebrows. It’s silly, but the comparison eases my disquiet.
You can imagine how often he’s wanted to strangle me seeing as the skin between his eyebrows is permanently grooved.
Another gust of warmth envelops me.
Your mother called it his ‘resting crow face.’ He wasn’t fond of the term, but he was so fond of her that he took it in stride. What he did not take in stride was when I made use of the expression.
An unexpected bubble of laughter ruptures the tight seam of my lips.
Such a lovely sound. I request to hear it more often.
Request, huh? I shake my head, a smile digging into my cheeks. You’re giving my sanity whiplash, Lore.
I wait for his answering quip.
And wait.
As silence stretches between us, I sink into my pillow and wonder if he’s already reached Nebba. And then I wonder if he’s located his missing men.
The sun rises and sets twice, and although I ask whichever Crow is stuck with me for news, I’m not given any.
By day three, I’ve grown so worried that I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick. Not even my daily strolls through the garden with Syb and Arina have helped vanquish my anxiety. I start imagining horrific scenarios and inspect my guards daily for signs of obsidian gangrene.
On day four, I leave Antoni’s home and wander the Tarecuorin harbor marketplace arm in arm with Catriona in the hopes that my grandmother will decide to show herself—she doesn’t—but someone else does.
“Fallon Rossi, just the girl I came to the mainland to find!”
Thirty-Seven
Long brown hair whipping in the midday breeze, Eponine stands at the bow of a gondola lacquered with so many coats of varnish that it reflects the tall forehead she’s adorned with an amethyst circlet.
My guards—two in skin and two in feathers—box me in as the vessel docks and royal guards, some in white and some in forest green, spill onto the Tarecuorin wharf.
“You came to the mainland to see me, Princcisa?” Although I do not bow, I do nod as Eponine walks toward us in a gown that seems fashioned from real wisteria clusters. Only the sequins that glimmer amidst the blooms betray they are made from ribbon and taffeta.
“I’ve booked us an appointment at my favorite tailor.”
I momentarily find myself hoping it’s the same tailor who stitched the dress she is wearing for it is by far the loveliest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, but then I snap out of my shallow contemplation because I cannot imagine the princess is that desperate for companionship that she’d seek me out for a shopping spree.