The Winner's Curse (The Winner's Trilogy, #1)(33)

Kestrel remembered Irex’s threatening leer. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But why?”

“I don’t like him.”

“What does that matter? There will be scores of people, and his house is certainly large enough for you to avoid him. Everyone will be there. How will it look if you are not?”

Kestrel thought of a Bite and Sting game. She had to admit that if Irex’s invitation were a tile and not a piece of paper folded and sealed, she would play it coolly.

Jess drew near and reached for Kestrel’s hands. “I don’t like to see you sad. Come with Ronan and me, and we will keep you away from Irex and make you laugh at him. Come, Kestrel. I won’t give up until you say yes.”





19


When the dress for Irex’s dinner party arrived wrapped in muslin and tied with twine, it was Arin who brought the package to Kestrel. She hadn’t seen him since the first green storm. She didn’t like to think about that day. It was her grief, she decided, that she didn’t want to remember. She was learning to live around it. She had returned to her music, and let that and outings and lessons flow around the fact of Enai’s death, smoothing its jagged edges.

She spent little time at the villa. She sent no invitations to Arin for Bite and Sting. If she went into society, she chose other escorts.

When Arin stepped into her sitting room that was really a writing room, Kestrel set her book next to her on the divan and turned its spine so that he wouldn’t see the title.

“Hmm,” Arin said, turning the packaged dress over in his hands. “What could this be?”

“I am sure you know.”

He pressed it between his fingers. “A very soft kind of weapon, I think.”

“Why are you delivering my dress?”

“I saw Lirah with it. I asked if I could bring it to you.”

“And she let you, of course.”

He lifted his brows at her tone. “She was busy. I thought she would be glad for one less thing to do.”

“That was kind of you then,” Kestrel said, though she heard her voice indicate otherwise and was annoyed with herself.

Slowly, he said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean nothing.”

“You asked me to be honest with you. Do you think I have been?”

She remembered his harsh words during the storm. “Yes.”

“Can I not ask the same thing of you?”

The answer was no, no slave could ask anything of her. The answer was no, if he wanted her secret thoughts he could try to win them at Bite and Sting. But Kestrel swallowed a sudden flare of nervousness and admitted to herself that she valued his honesty—and her own, when she was around him. There was nothing wrong with speaking the truth. “I think that you are not fair to Lirah.”

His brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not fair for you to encourage Lirah when your heart is elsewhere.”

He inhaled sharply. Kestrel thought that he might tell her it was no business of hers, for it was not, but then she saw that he wasn’t offended, only taken aback. He pulled up a chair in that possessive, natural way of his and sank into it, dropping the dress onto his knees. He studied her. She willed herself not to look away.

“I hadn’t thought of Lirah like that.” Arin shook his head. “I’m not thinking clearly at all. I need to be more careful.”

Kestrel supposed that she should feel reassured.

Arin set the package on the divan where she sat. “A new dress means an event on the horizon.”

“Yes, a dinner party. Lord Irex is hosting.”

He frowned. “And you’re going?”

She shrugged.

“Do you need an escort?”

Kestrel intended to say no, but became distracted by the determined set to Arin’s mouth. He looked almost … protective. She was surprised that he should look that way. She was confused, and perhaps this made her say, “To be honest, I would be glad for your company.”

His eyes held hers. Then his gaze fell to the book by Kestrel’s side. Before she could stop him, he took it with a nimble hand and read the title. It was a Valorian history of its empire and wars.

Arin’s face changed. He returned the book and left.

*

“Where are we going?” Arin stared out the carriage window at the trees of the Garden District, their bare branches slim and violet in the dusk.

Kestrel fidgeted with her skirts. “Arin. You know that we are going to Irex’s party.”

“Yes,” he said shortly, but didn’t tear his gaze away from the passing trees.

Better he look at them than at her. The velvet dress was a deep red, the skirts deliberately crushed in a pattern highlighted by golden embroidered leaves that twined up toward the bodice, where they interlaced and would catch the light. Conspicuous. The dress made her conspicuous. Kestrel sank into her corner of the carriage, feeling her dagger dig into her side. This evening at Irex’s wouldn’t be easy.

Arin seemed to think the same. He held himself so rigidly on the carriage seat across from her that he looked wooden. Tension seeped into the air between them.

When torches lit the darkness outside the windows and the driver lined up behind other carriages waiting to access the pathway to Irex’s villa, Kestrel said, “Perhaps we should return home.”