Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(18)

“I’m no one of importance,” I say.

“I beg to differ. He’s lucky I didn’t have one of the guards put an arrow in his back for standing over you like that.”

I choke on my next sip. “Well. That would have made for an interesting second meeting.” I ease the cup onto the table, but as I lift my eyes, a slight movement beyond Corrick catches my attention. A man and woman are sitting near the window, but the man is glaring at the prince. He’s older, with thinning hair and a thick gray beard, but his arms are heavily muscled. His shirt bears sweat stains and a few threadbare spots along his shoulders. His skin is sun-darkened and weathered like a dockworker.

His hand is in a tight fist on his knee.

Corrick takes a lazy sip. “You look concerned.”

“There’s a man over there.” I keep my voice very low. “He’s glaring at you.”

“Ah.”

I glance at the guards to see if they’ve noticed. I can’t tell. But at least they look alert. When I look at the dockworker again, he catches my gaze and startles. He deliberately unclenches his hand, turning to look out the window instead.

I drag my eyes back to Corrick’s. “Aren’t you concerned?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “When I found the note in your chambers, yes, I was concerned. When the porters told me you’d left alone, yes, I was concerned.” He gives me a look. “One man glaring at me is a matter of course, Tessa.”

“You didn’t need to worry. I was fine. I knew you were busy with other things.”

“People know you’re important to the king.” His voice is practical, but a bit of that gentle warmth slips in. “That you’re important to me.” His hand brushes over mine.

It’s uncommon for him to touch me in public. A blush heats my cheeks. “Well.”

He smiles, and I feel that warmth all the way down to my toes. I’ve been at court long enough to know that a true smile from the prince is rare.

When he was Weston Lark, he smiled often. Every time I earn a smile from Corrick, it’s both a reminder of who he truly is—and who he can no longer be.

The glaring dockworker is looking at him again, and it robs some of my warmth. I clear my throat. “What happened with …” I hesitate, but we’re close enough to the docks in Artis that people here have surely heard about the boat arriving from Ostriary. “What happened with the ship?” I say. “Can you tell me?”

“Not here. But that’s part of why I came to fetch you.”

“Really!” My eyebrows go up. “What—”

A roar of rage cuts me off. The dockworker explodes from his seat as he launches himself at the prince. Light glints on a blade, and I suck in a breath.

I don’t know if Corrick sees my reaction or if he hears the man coming, but he sweeps out of his seat in one smooth movement, pushing me toward the guards before I even realize he’s tugged me out of my chair. The man slams into him, and they crash to the ground together. They skid into the table, and the drinks wobble before tipping over, spilling to the floor. The mugs shatter on impact. Chocolate splatters my skirts.

“We’d be better off without them!” the man is shouting. He lifts a dagger, and my heart stops. “Finish the revolution! Kill him! Kill the—”

Corrick punches him right in the throat. The man’s words break off with a gurgling sound, but he swings that dagger anyway. The guards will never be fast enough.

They don’t need to be. Corrick blocks, then flips the man onto his back. The blade goes skittering across the floor. I don’t even see the prince draw his own dagger, but it’s there, against the man’s throat, just as the guards move in, crossbows aimed and ready. One restrains the man’s companion, because she squeals when her arm is twisted back. One of the other guards draws back the bolt on a crossbow, aiming for the man’s head.

I inhale sharply. One of the girls behind the counter lets out a cry.

“No,” says Corrick, and his voice is just as quiet and even as when he told Mistress Woolfrey that he didn’t need a fresh drink.

The guard with the crossbow hesitates, looking up, waiting for an order.

Corrick’s blade is still against that man’s throat. The man’s breathing shudders—but then his eyes narrow, and he spits in Corrick’s face.

A line of blood appears around the blade, trickling toward the floor. “I’ve cut men’s tongues off for less,” Corrick says, his voice as low and vicious as I’ve ever heard it.

I’m frozen in place. So is everyone else in the shop. I wait for Corrick to let him up, to order the guards to take him out of here, but he doesn’t move.

That line of blood darkens. Thickens. The blade has gone deeper.

The man hisses a breath, then chokes on a sob, rebellion shifting into fear. “Please,” he gasps. “Please.”

I’m thinking the same word in my head. Please, Corrick. Please. I have to bite my tongue so I don’t say it out loud.

Corrick leans close. Blood still flows. “So you beg when it’s your life in question.”

A tear leaks out of the man’s eye, finding the blood to trail down his neck.

My stomach is tight, and I don’t know what to do. No matter who Corrick is to me, he’s the King’s Justice to everyone else. I can’t interfere.