The Kiss of Deception (The Remnant Chronicles, #1)(22)

He didn’t respond, as though my blade and professed skills didn’t impress him.

“Well, good night, then.” I turned to leave.

“Lia, wait.”

I stopped, my back still toward him. Good sense told me to keep moving. Go, Lia. Move on. I heard a lifetime of warnings. My mother. Father. Brothers. Even the Scholar. Everyone who hedged me before and behind for good or bad. Keep moving.

But I didn’t. Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was hearing him say my name. Or maybe I was still feeling full from knowing that sometimes I was right, that sometimes my impulsive gut might lead me into danger, but that didn’t make it any less the right direction to go. Maybe it was feeling the impossible was about to happen. Dread and anticipation tangled together.

I turned and met his gaze, feeling the danger of it, the heat, but not willing to look away. I waited for him to speak. He took another step closer, the space between us closing to a mere few feet. He lifted his hand toward me, and I took a shaky step back but saw he was only holding my cap. “You dropped this.”

He held it out, steady, waiting for me to take it, bits of crushed leaves still clinging to its gauzy lace.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and reached out to take it from him, my fingertips brushing his, but he held it tight. His skin seared against the cool of mine. I looked into his eyes, questioning his grip, and for the first time I saw a chink in his armor, his usual steely expression softened by a crease between his brows, a moment of indecision washing over his face, and then an ever so slight rise in his chest—a deeper breath, as if I’d caught him off guard.

“I have it,” I said. “You can let go.”

He released his grip, bid me a hasty good night, then abruptly turned and disappeared back down the path.

He was unsettled. I had knocked him off kilter. More than seeing this, I had felt it, his disquiet palpable on my skin, tickling at my neck. How? What had I done? I didn’t know, but I stared into the black hollows of the path where he disappeared until the wind rattled the branches above me, reminding me it was late, I was alone, and the woods were very dark.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


THE ASSASSIN



There can be no second chances.

And yet I had let one slip past me.

I threw my saddlebag against the wall. My loftmate had taken the mattress in the opposite corner. At least the space was ample. He was raising my hackles already, a country clod who, with two drinks, had foolishly set his sights on a princess. I knew the type. A mistake to befriend him, but regardless, there were no more rooms in the inn, so I likely would have ended up sharing the loft with him anyway.

The accommodations were sparse. Only a roof over our heads, and thin bare mattresses we had to hoist up from a storage room ourselves, but at least the barn didn’t stink—yet. I had to concede too that the food at the inn was a far better option than a bony squirrel roasted on a stick over an open fire, and I was tired of filling my bota from gritty streams.

I hope dark ciders are to your liking.

They were. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t her. I rubbed my ribs beneath my shirt, remembering the numerous beatings, years past now, but each lash still fresh in my mind. The royals I had known were made of cowardice and greed, and she showed no measure of either. She stood her ground with that soldier, defending her friend like a whole army stood behind her. She was frightened. I saw the mugs tremble in her hand, but her fear didn’t hold her back.

Still, a royal was a royal, and her haughty arrogance proved her roots. I’d remember that when her time came, but there was no reason I couldn’t enjoy the comforts of the inn and other pleasures as well for a few more days before I finished my business. There was plenty of time for that. Griz and the others wouldn’t be joining up with me for another month. I didn’t have to spend it alone in a wasteland eating rodents when I could stay here. I’d get the job done when the time was right. The Komizar had always been able to count on me, and this time would be no different.

I pulled off my boots and blew out the lantern, sliding my knife just below the mattress edge at hand’s reach. How many times had I slashed it across anonymous throats? But this time I knew the name of my victim, at least the assumed one she was using. Lia. A very unroyal name. I wondered why she chose it.

Lia. Like a whisper on the wind.





CHAPTER TWELVE


THE PRINCE



I’d told Sven I probably wouldn’t even speak to her, and yet from the moment I saw her prance around like nothing in the outside world mattered, that’s all I wanted to do. I wanted to deliver a diatribe of epic proportion, a lecture that would color even my father’s seasoned ears. I wanted to betray her identity to a roomful of people, and yet I sat there silently and let her deliver menu choices to me instead. Princess Arabella, First Daughter of the House of Morrighan, working in a tavern.

And she seemed to be enjoying it. Immensely.

Maybe that’s what bothered me most of all. While I was on the road, wondering if she was the quarry of bandits or bears, she was playing barmaid. She was trouble, that was clear, and the day she fled our wedding, I had dodged a poisonous arrow. She did me a favor. I could almost laugh at Father’s suggestion of taking a mistress after the wedding. This girl could make the whole royal court and half the king’s army regret such a decision.