The Wish Granter (Ravenspire #2)(37)

The wagon creaked, the body thumped, and at some point they passed the man with the sword and left him and the building he guarded behind, but Ari wasn’t aware of any of it.

Her world was the gentle roughness of Sebastian’s lips and the warmth of his body chasing shivers across her skin.

Her heart pounded, and she tilted her head to get a better angle.

This was much more fun than the practice kissing she’d tried on her bedpost when she was twelve. Sebastian made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, and Ari grabbed the front of his tunic as a delicious tingling swirled through her belly.

Sebastian pulled back, his breathing unsteady. “Your Highness—”

“Ari,” she said, still leaning toward his lips.

He winced at the same moment that Ari realized with absolute mortification that her mouth still tasted vaguely of vomit.

She scooted away from him. “Oh, stars.”

“Princess Arianna—”

“I am so—”

“That was—”

“Awful. I know.”

He stiffened and fell silent.

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry. There are no words for how sorry I am.”

“It worked. That’s all that matters.” He was using his formal, reserved, I’m-dealing-with-nobility voice.

“I forgot,” she said quietly, still hiding her face.

“Forgot what?”

“That I’d recently been sick and hadn’t had any mint. I don’t think I can ever look you in the eye again.”

Which was definitely going to put a crimp in their developing friendship.

Well . . . more of a crimp than kissing him with vomit breath had already accomplished.

He was silent for an agonizingly long time. Ari contemplated jumping out of the wagon. Changing her name and moving to Ravenspire. Hiding in her room for the next five years.

Finally, he spoke. “I wasn’t going to say it was awful.” He sounded friendly and amused. “I was going to say it was smart. I would never have thought of it. And it’s okay that you hadn’t had mint. We weren’t kissing for real. It was an act. No need to be embarrassed.”

She was pretty sure she was going to be embarrassed for the rest of her life.

The wagon swayed to a stop.

“Princess Arianna, you don’t have to cover your face anymore.”

Slowly she peeled her fingers away from her eyes and risked a glance at his face.

His eyes crinkled.

If he could smile about this, then so could she. She made herself give him a wobbly grin, which disappeared the instant she looked around and realized they were at the edge of a ditch that had been dug across the back of an empty field. The road was at least three hundred paces behind them.

“What is this?” Ari looked over her shoulder, half expecting the man with the sword to have followed them up the road, but no one was there.

“This is where Alistair Teague dumps the bodies of those who die in his warehouse. Leaving Daan here will make it seem like only someone with intimate knowledge of Teague’s business could have killed him. He’ll look hard at his suppliers, his employees, and his competitors in Balavata. Hopefully, he won’t be looking at you or the king.”

“How do you know so much about Teague’s business?” she asked because it suddenly occurred to her that she was trusting him—with her life and with her brother’s—on the basis of a friendship that had been in existence for a week. And while her instincts about people were rarely wrong, this time being wrong could cost her everything.

Sebastian was quiet for a long moment. Finally he said with quiet intensity, “My father works for Teague. So did my brother before he died.” He met her gaze and something fierce burned in his eyes. “You don’t have to worry, Princess Arianna. I’d rather die than follow in my father’s footsteps. You’re safe with me.”

Ari nodded and ordered her traitorous stomach to stay right where it was as she turned toward the body. “I believe you. And this is a brilliant plan, Sebastian.”

“I have my moments.”

He jumped down from the wagon and offered her his hand. “Ready?”

“Ready.” She took his hand and climbed down, and together they moved to haul the body out of the wagon bed and throw it in the ditch.





SIXTEEN


“WE NEED TO talk.” Ari closed the door to Thad’s bedroom suite, locked it, and then pulled his writing chair over to the side of the bed and took a seat. Her brother was ensconced in a mound of pillows, a tiny bottle of willow bark and poppy leaves resting on his nightstand for when he needed help controlling the pain of his broken ribs and lacerated arm. It had been three days since his beating at the hands of the now dead collector, and the palace physician was still unwilling to allow the king to leave his bed.

Three days since Ari had kissed Sebastian with vomit breath and then subsequently skipped going to the arena for lessons because, stars knew, she had no idea what to say to him after that.

Three days and Ari had only checked on Thad from afar. Partially because she wasn’t sure how to approach the problem of Alistair Teague and hadn’t wanted to discuss it with Thad until she had a plan, and partially because it had taken three days for her to stop losing her lunch every time she remembered the sickening crunch of the cudgel hitting the collector’s head.