Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(19)

“Always stubborn,” he mutters.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s crouched in front of me, his hands on my arms. His touch makes me spasm. He’s too strong and manages to push me on the mattress so I’m lying down on my side.

“Please rest,” he says, softly. “At least for a few hours more. Then we’ll talk.”

To my exasperation, he’s out the door before I can form a protest, and my eyelids are drooping against my will.



I’m tired of following Papa through the market, tucking myself behind his wide back as he works his trades. It’s tough to stay hidden all the time, but Papa says it’s better for me to stay in his shadow so the traders don’t say something that will force Papa to draw his sword against one of them. It’s a relief to leave the tents of vendors when he steps into the bakery. I hope the baker is in and not his wife. She’s horrid and likes to call me names. Her husband, on the other hand, usually doesn’t notice me.

Unfortunately, Siobhan, the baker’s daughter, stands at the counter beside a tray of steaming buns. My mouth waters. She recognizes Papa and sends him to the back of the store. He flicks his hand out once. His way of telling me to stay.

“Did ya steal those off a corpse?” sneers Siobhan when we’re alone.

I resist the urge to tug my skirt down. At one time the material dragged on the ground, now it’s a hand span too short to hide the boots that are too large for my feet.

“Only a dead man would be caught in those shoes.” She laughs.

Last week I made the mistake of trying to talk to Siobhan. She was huddled in the alley behind the shop, tears coursing over her round cheeks. The kids had been teasing her, calling her stupid and piggish. I approached, only speaking two words before she wiped her face, shot me a hateful glare, and stormed off.

Her laugh is a cackle as I scramble for something to say. The right words never come.

“Don’t talk to me again,” she says. “I don’t want people thinking I’m friends with a Shaerdanian. Or worse, a traitor—?whore’s daughter.”

I flinch, though I’ve heard it many times before. People said my parents’ marriage wasn’t real because they married in Shaerdan. Doesn’t matter that it was before the border closure. “Don’t call my mother that.”

“Your momma hated you so much, she’d rather follow the Archtraitor than stick around to raise you.”

“Stop!” I lunge at her, knocking her perfect baked goods to the floor.



Morning finds me balled up on the mattress with a blanket tucked around my body. I shake off the dreamt memory and push the hair from my eyes. The door swings open and Cohen walks in carrying a bowl of steaming—?is that porridge?

I scramble to my feet, grateful my back pain is nearly gone.

His eyes flick from my hands to my face. “You’re feeling better.”

He sets the bowl on the table. The porridge is covered in honey and cinnamon, and—?stars help me—?smells divine. Stop looking at the food. Stop staring at Cohen.

“Why’d you find me in the woods? Why bring me here? What are you playing at?” The words tumble out. I don’t even care how frazzled I sound. I want answers. “W-what do you want from me?”

His mouth pulls into a tight line. Against his otherwise schooled features, it’s the only sign that he’s either displeased or he doesn’t have an answer. I’ve never been able to read him when he isn’t smiling.

“Eat,” Cohen says. “We’ll talk later.”

“No.”

After a moment of hesitation, he crosses his arms. I wait for him to explain. Instead he has questions of his own. “Did Jamis send you after me? Or Omar?”

“Lord Jamis.”

He scoffs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you find me so easily.”

A scowl pinches my features, covering my chagrin. Truth be told, it makes sense that the wild-goose chase was his plan. Typical arrogance. Cohen was always a little too reckless. A little too self-assured.

A small wiggle of my ankle tells me the dagger is still in my boot. Clearly, Cohen’s overconfidence hasn’t changed at all. The fool shouldn’t have left me armed.

In a snap, my blade’s in my hand and pointed at his sternum. “Why did you kill my father?”





Chapter

10


COHEN DOESN’T SO MUCH AS BLINK.

He’s always had a gambler’s face. I could be a mule birthing an immaculately conceived fawn, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Which is why when his foot snakes out and hooks my ankle, it tips me off balance.

Bludger.

I scramble around the bed as he brandishes a knife. On instinct, or years of training together, we both drop into similar fighting stances, circling each other. He kicks the chair out of the way. It clunks against the wood floor. Using the distraction, I rush forward, slicing at his torso. Cohen grunts and jumps back. The best defense against someone Cohen’s size and with his strength is distance. I move away, wobbling while fighting to keep an arm’s reach between us.

Whatever he drugged me with hasn’t completely faded. My head still aches as though it’s been trampled by a herd of horses. A groan slips out as I attack. Cohen parries each of my blows with ease. My strength is dwindling faster than I could empty a waterskin. I manage to punch his perfectly straight nose, but at this distance it doesn’t do more than draw a little blood. In a flash, he has my arms pinned and my body twisted so my back is held flush to his body.