The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom, #1)(83)

Lara had been going to war. Or so she’d thought at the time.

“The king ordered the streets cleared. No one was allowed out of their homes until you’d boarded the ship. For your protection, they said.”

It had nothing to do with her protection. It was one last step to ensure that Lara boarded the ship convinced Maridrina was in the direst of straits and that Ithicana was to blame. One last piece of deception.

“Then they loaded you onto the ship, and you were gone. Off to Ithicana and off, unbeknownst to me at the time, to steal away my favorite lover.”

Lara gave her a sweet smile. “Given you hadn’t seen him in over a year, I’m not sure you had much claim to him at that point. If ever.”

“You are quite the little bitch, aren’t you?”

Lara plucked the glass Marisol was polishing from her hands, filled it, waited for the other woman to raise it, then clinked hers against it. “Cheers to that.”

Swallowing the liquid in one mouthful, Marisol set aside the glass. “We expected things to change. For your father to ease his filthy taxes or at least to use the money for something better than his ceaseless war with Valcotta.”

“But nothing changed.”

Marisol shook her head. “If anything, it’s only gotten worse.”

“Makes one wonder why I bothered going.” Except Lara knew exactly why she’d gone to Ithicana. To save her sisters. To save her kingdom. To save herself. In this precise moment, she half wondered if she’d damned them all.

“Not your choice, I suppose.” Marisol’s eyes drifted over Lara’s shoulder, taking in the comings and goings of the common room. “What I do know is that you married the best man I’ve ever had a privilege to meet, so perhaps instead of drowning your sorrows, you ought to consider a better use of your time.” She inclined her head. “Either way, I hope you enjoy your evening, Your Majesty.”

“Good night,” Lara muttered, refilling her glass. She knew Aren was a good man. Her instincts, which she should’ve trusted, had been screaming it at her for longer than she’d cared to admit, but she’d ignored them in favor of what she’d been told. She’d been duped. Manipulated. Played.

She’d gone to the palace to kill her father.

Her plan had been to use the codes she’d been given to gain access, then wait for them to bring her to her father—and kill him. With her bare hands, if she needed to. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been trained to do it. They’d kill her afterward, but his death would be worth it. Worth that moment when her father realized that she, his prized weapon, had turned on him instead.

But as Lara had stood there in the pouring rain, her father’s soldiers watching her with bored interest, Master Erik’s voice had filled her ears: Do not let your temper get the better of you, little cockroach. For when you do, you risk your enemies getting the better of you.

It would be one thing if her loss of temper only cost her. But as she stood there, skin prickling with some sixth sense warning her of danger, it occurred to Lara that it would be Ithicana—and Aren—who would pay the price. The sheets of paper in Aren’s rooms at Midwatch still bore all of the bridge’s secrets. If even one of them reached Serin’s hands . . . that was damage that could never be undone. She needed to ensure they were destroyed. Once that was accomplished, she could turn to vengeance with a clear conscience.

She’d returned, intending to leave Aren a note explaining everything and instructing him to destroy the papers, but the vision of Aren’s face when he read it kept spinning across her thoughts. He, who was loyal to his very core, would take her act of disloyalty personally. He’d hate her. Lara swallowed the contents of her glass in big gulps, wishing the alcohol would work faster. Wishing it would numb her traitorous heart.

Filling her glass again and again, she ruminated until the bottle was empty, the whiskey doing nothing to numb the dull ache in her chest. She would’ve ordered another and kept on drinking, but there was no one left to serve her, all the bottles and glassware put away for the night, the room silent and still.

Rising to her feet, Lara turned to discover the common room empty of patrons and staff, chairs pushed into tables, floors swept, and door latched. Devoid of life. Except for Aren, who sat at the table behind her.

She stared blearily at him, her heart feeling as though it had been torn into a thousand pieces, then set aflame.

“Waiting for me to go to bed so you can go find Marisol?” The words were slurred. Spiteful. But she almost wished he’d do it if for no other reason than it would give her a valid reason to hate him. A valid reason to leave and never look back.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Who do you think came to find me to deal with my shit-mouthed little cousin?”

Lara made a face. “She knows I’m not your cousin. She knows exactly who I am, and, by extension, who you are.”

“Clever Marisol.”

“You aren’t concerned?”

Aren shook his head, then rose to his feet. His clothes were wet, but whatever rainwater he’d tracked in had long since dried. How long had he been sitting there?

“She’s been spying for Ithicana for almost a decade—since your father hung hers and then spiked his head on Vencia’s gates. She’s loyal.”

Jealous words danced on Lara’s tongue, but she swallowed them. “She’s beautiful. And kind.”