Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1)(100)

In the space between blinks, she could have sworn she saw things swooping past him in swift, vicious circles, hovering above him, waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

“Milady,” Cain said, bowing his head as he strode by.

Kaltain said nothing. She clenched her sweaty palms and continued toward the Great Hall. It took a while for the sound of flapping wings to fade, but by the time she reached the duke’s table, she’d forgotten all about it.

?

After dinner that night, Celaena sat across the chessboard from Dorian. The kiss following the ball two days ago hadn’t been so bad. Nice, actually, if she was being honest. Of course, he’d returned tonight, and so far there had been no mention of the fresh scars on her hand, or the kiss. And she’d never, not in a million years, tell him about the ridderak. She might feel something for him, but if he told his father about the power of the Wyrdmarks and Wyrdgates . . . Her blood chilled at the thought.

But looking at him, with his face illuminated by firelight, she couldn’t see any resemblance to his father. No, she could only see his kindness, and intelligence, and maybe he was a tad arrogant, but . . . Celaena’s toes scratched Fleetfoot’s ears. She’d expected him to stay away, to move on to another woman now that he’d tasted her.

Well, did he even want to taste you in the first place?

He moved his High Priestess, and Celaena laughed. “Do you really wish to do that?” she asked. His face contorted with confusion, and she picked up her pawn, moving it diagonally, and easily knocked over the piece.

“Damn!” he cried, and she cackled.

“Here.” She handed him the piece. “Take it and try another move.”

“No. I’ll play like a man and accept my losses!”

They laughed, but silence soon crept over them. A smile still played about her lips, and he reached for her hand. She wanted to pull it away, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He held her hand over the board and smoothly flattened their palms against each other, interlocking his fingers with hers. His hand was calloused but sturdy. Their entwined hands rested on the side of the table.

“One needs both hands to play chess,” she said, wondering if it were possible for her heart to explode. Fleetfoot huffed and trotted away, probably to disappear under the bed.

“I think you only need one.” He moved a piece all over the board. “See?”

She chewed her lip. Still, she didn’t pull her hand from his. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“I’d like to.” She couldn’t move as he leaned toward her, closer and closer, the table groaning beneath him, until he stopped, his lips just a hair’s breadth from hers.

“I ran into your father in the hall today,” she blurted.

Dorian slowly sat back in his chair. “And?”

“And it was fine,” she lied. His eyes narrowed.

He lifted her chin with a finger. “You didn’t say that to avoid the inevitable, did you?” No, she’d said that just to keep talking, to keep him here as long as he would be willing to stay, so she didn’t have to face a night alone with the threat of Cain hovering over her. Who better to keep at her side in the dark hours of the night than the son of the king? Cain wouldn’t dare harm him.

But all of this . . . everything that had happened with the ridderak meant all the books she’d read were true. What if Cain could summon anything to him—like the dead? There were many people who lost their fortunes when magic vanished. Even the king himself might be intrigued by this sort of power.

“You’re trembling,” Dorian said. She was. Like a damned idiot, she was trembling. “Are you all right?” He moved around the table to sit beside her.

She couldn’t tell him; no, he could never know. Just as he couldn’t know that when she’d checked under her bed before dinner, there were fresh chalk marks for her to wash away. Cain knew that she’d discovered how he was eliminating the competition. Perhaps he’d hunt her down tonight, or perhaps not—she hadn’t the faintest idea. But she’d get little sleep tonight—or until Cain was impaled on the end of her sword.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice was little more than a whisper. But if he kept asking, she was bound to tell him.

“Are you sure that you’re feeling—” he began, but she surged forward and kissed him.

She almost knocked him to the floor. But he shot out an arm to the back of the chair and braced himself as his spare arm wrapped around her middle. She let the touch, the taste of him fill the room of her mind with water. She kissed him, hoping to steal some of his air. Her fingers entangled themselves in his hair, and as he kissed her fiercely, she let everything fade away.

?

The clock chimed three. Celaena sat on her bed, knees curled to her chest. After hours of kissing and talking and more kissing on her bed, Dorian had left only minutes before. She’d been tempted to ask him to stay—the smart thing would have been to ask him to stay—but the thought of Dorian being here when Cain or the ridderak came for her, of Dorian being hurt, made her let him go.

Too tired to read, but too awake to sleep, she just stared at the crackling fire. Every bump and footstep made her jolt, and she’d managed to swipe a few pins from Philippa’s sewing basket when she wasn’t looking. But a makeshift knife, a heavy book, and a candlestick weren’t protection against what Cain could summon.