Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(70)

Not that I don’t trust Deven; I do. But he didn’t stop his father from imprisoning me, and the image of him standing there, horrified, as they took me away in chains still haunts me. I swallow hard and frame the thought as a question instead.

“What if I’m the one who killed your brother?” I stare at my hands so that I don’t have to see his face.

There’s a long silence, and I think he may have left. Then he asks softly, “Is that why you won’t let me touch you?” I meet his gaze, and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t speak, and so I only nod. Deven shakes his head. “You didn’t kill my brother, Marinda.”

“But I must have. Kadru said—”

“He was fifteen years older than me. I was only two when he died. You weren’t kissing boys as a baby, were you?”

“No,” I say. “I wasn’t.”

For a moment I just sit there. It’s a new sensation, discovering my innocence instead of my guilt, and I’m not sure where to put that knowledge—where it fits or what it means. Of all the horrible things I’ve done, I didn’t do this one. Some of the heaviness that’s been pressing on my chest for months lifts away. It’s not everything, but it’s something.

“I didn’t kill him,” I say, as if the words will make it true.

“No,” Deven says. “You didn’t. And you didn’t kill me either. You could have, and you didn’t.”

“No,” I say, “I really couldn’t have.”

Deven scoots closer to me and lays a hand on my cheek. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “And then I’m going to continue living and so are you.”

My heart skitters forward. Deven brushes his lips softly against mine and then pulls away and searches my face like he’s making an important decision. My cheeks are warm and all my limbs feel heavy and loose. Deven strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me again. And this time the kiss is passionate and soft and all-consuming. Something inside me trembles and then splits wide open.

I have kissed dozens of boys, but I have never been kissed. Until this moment I didn’t know there was a difference. I didn’t know kissing could be like this—like creating instead of destroying, like beginnings and not endings. Like melting. Like love.

The restlessness I’ve been feeling for months wriggles and expands in my chest. It takes shape—and it is hard and courageous and defiant.

Deven pulls away and trails his fingers down my neck.

“I want a meeting with the Raja,” I tell him.

Deven’s eyes widen as if that was the last thing he ever expected me to say. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he starts. But he must see something in my expression, something where the fear used to be. “Okay,” he says. “When?”

I lay my head on his shoulder. “Soon,” I say. “Tomorrow.” But for tonight I just want to stay right here—curled up in Deven’s arms and basking in the feeling of being loved, of Mani being safe, of being free.

It’s likely the last bit of peace I’ll have for a long time.



This time when I enter the Raja’s throne room, I’m wearing Iyla’s cloak. I took it from her satchel months ago, when we first arrived at the blue cottage. If she noticed it was missing, she never said anything. I don’t know why I did it. Only that it felt like it belonged to me and I was tired of people taking the things that were mine.

Deven warned me that wearing it to the meeting with his father was a bad idea. He was right, of course. When the Raja sees me, his face goes white with rage.

“How dare you?” he says. His hands are fists at his sides. “You escape from my prison, undermine my plans to apprehend the Naga with a half-baked rescue effort, and then have the nerve to show up here wearing a cloak of scales?” He motions to the guards. “Put her in chains,” he says.

But Deven holds up a hand. “Stop,” he says. The guards hesitate and look uncertainly between father and son. “Hear her out, Father.”

The Raja’s mouth twists. “You will not defend her,” he says. “You know what the Naga are, what they do.”

“But Marinda is not—”

This time the Raja’s words are a roar. “You will. Not. Defend her!”

“You need me.” I say it softly, but the room falls silent and every head swivels in my direction. I lift the hood of the cloak and let it drop behind me. “If you’re going to take down the Naga, you need me.”

The Raja’s mouth pinches. A vein bulges at his temple, throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat. But he doesn’t speak. I take his silence as an invitation.

“The Naga have taken everything from me,” I tell him. “They have robbed me of parents, of friends, of freedom. They have beaten me and tortured me and attempted to kill my brother.” I swallow. “They have turned me into a killer. I want what you want. I want to destroy the Naga.”

The Raja’s eyes narrow. “And yet”—he waves his hand in my direction—“you come to me dressed like this.”

“The Nagaraja gave me a gift,” I say. “If I don’t use it the way he intended, is it any less mine?”

The Raja temples his fingers under his chin and stares off into the distance. His breathing evens out, and when he turns back to me, his expression is drained of anger. His eyes are sharp, calculating. “What do you propose?”