Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(83)

“Stop,” he whispers against my neck. “He’s one of us.”

My heart thunders against my ribs. I stop struggling, stop moving. I’m numb with shock, disappointment. “Let go of me.”

Rumi releases me. “Certainly.”

He’s watching me carefully, as if I’m a volcano about to shoot ash and hot lava. I seriously just might. The priest slides into the booth as if it’s a forgone conclusion that I’ll remain in his company, that I’ll talk to him, that I’ll accept this new development.

I clench my fists. “I’m leaving.”

Rumi stands in front of me, blocking my sight of the priest. “Condesa.”

I flinch at the title. What am I doing here? Maybe I was wrong about all of it: my feelings for Rumi, siding with him instead of Catalina, thinking Princesa Tamaya belongs on the throne. Luna, that hurts. If she can align herself with someone like Sajra, then I want no part of their plans.

“There’s nothing you can say that will convince me to stay.”

Juan Carlos is now standing next to his cousin, along with a few more people I recognize. Court nobles dressed down. Guards not in uniform. I try to move past them, but Juan Carlos drops a hand on my shoulder.

“Wait a moment,” he whispers.

I pull away. “Absolutely not.”

Rumi is looking at me silently, considering. Then he turns to the priest. “What did you do to her?”

Sajra—Umaq—polishes off the last of my api. “What was necessary.”

In his response, I hear condescension and superiority. He’s valuable to them, and he knows how to exploit that.

Juan Carlos mutters a low curse. Atoc’s nobles shoot me sympathetic glances. I barely notice. Rumi places both hands on the table and leans forward until he’s inches from the priest. “What does that mean?”

“He tortured me,” I say.

The priest smirks. Rumi lunges, swiping my abandoned glass and shattering it on the table. He holds up a shard against the priest’s neck. “You weren’t to touch her.”

“How else were we to know we could trust her?” the priest hisses. “I did the work neither of you could do. But now that you’ve brought her here, it was for nothing. Step back.”

“Rumi,” Juan Carlos whispers.

“He—” Rumi breaks off, letting out as sharp a curse as I’ve ever heard from him.

“I know.” Juan Carlos takes a breath and switches to the old language, speaking low and urgent until Rumi lowers the glass shard from the priest’s neck. His cousin pulls him away so that they’re standing shoulder to shoulder.

Rumi faces me. There’s regret in his expression, but also rage, barely contained. “I’ll take you back.”

My face is carved in stone, refusing to betray the tumult I’m experiencing under my skin. The shock of seeing the priest, the disappointment of learning he’s involved with Princesa Tamaya.

Rumi pulls me away from everyone’s watchful gazes. “His part in our plans can’t be replaced. He has Atoc’s ear and influence. That didn’t come easy or immediately, and replacing the priest would be tantamount to giving up before the real fight begins.”

It’s my choice. I can’t stand the priest, but it’s clear the people I respect in this room had no idea of the tactics he used against me. The horrible truth, whether I can stomach it or not, is that Sajra was right to suspect me. I’d made the decision to betray Rumi if I didn’t get my hands on the Estrella. They’ll never know how close I came to giving myself away. I hate the priest for what he put me through. I’ll never forgive or trust him, but I can hear what else these people have to say. I owe them that much.

I sit in the booth and level a look at Umaq. “Stay away from me.”

There’s that brittle smile, full of ice. Little does he know of the fire deep in my belly.

I won’t let him touch me again.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t enjoy it,” Umaq says.

I flick one of the shards of glass at him, and he snarls when it slices into his tunic sleeve.

I bare my teeth in a feral smile.

The rest of the group slides into the booth until we’re all pressed together like books on shelves. More drinks are ordered, along with bowls of sopa de mani topped with roasted carrots and chopped cilantro, and it’s in the commotion that the mood lightens, shoulders relax, the tight lines around their eyes disappear. Easy camaraderie returns and private jokes are shared.

I’m the intruder in their inner circle. I can feel their watchful stares as they assess me, the expression on my face, the way Rumi sits closer to my side. They are protective of him and looking at me as if I’m a potential threat, a weakness that might make their entire foundation sink.

In the hubbub, Rumi presses a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. In front of everyone. The chatter hushes as my face inflames. Juan Carlos, sitting on the other side of Rumi, leans forward and gives a suggestive eye wag that only prolongs my blush.

Rumi blinks long and slow, staring straight ahead. That’s his only reaction to his cousin’s gesture. If possible, my face flushes even more. Umaq makes a sniffing sound, like a predator searching for blood.

One of the nobles, an older woman with lustrous graying hair, clears her throat. “As charming as all this is, I’d like to know why you saw fit to bring the condesa to the tavern.”