A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(36)

Then he says, “The barmaid, Jodi, was a friend.”

Maybe it’s the way he says friend, or the way he mentions a girl’s name, or the fact that she was a barmaid, but something inside me sits up and pays attention. “A friend?” I say, trying to sound casual but likely failing miserably.

“Yes. A friend. Nothing more.” He shakes his head a little. “I was too … too wrapped up in fear of discovery for anyone to be anything more.”

“All your strategic positioning?”

“Mmm,” he says noncommittally, and I smile. I wait, but that’s all he says. For a moment, I wonder if that’s meaningful, if there was more between them that he doesn’t want to admit. But I should know better. For someone who reveals so little about himself, he’s incredibly forthright. There’s never a hint of artifice or deceit.

The silence that builds between us has no strain to it, and my earlier emotion has softened into something warmer. Better. Gentler. It makes me wish we never had to leave this space, that my world was confined to these quarters. Just me and him and this roaring fire, nothing outside the window but the night sky.

The thought feels immeasurably selfish.

I have to clear my throat before tears can form again. “I saw you on the fields with Tycho. I haven’t seen him in days. Is he well?”

“I’m … not certain.”

It’s not an answer I expected, so I snap my gaze up. “Why?”

“I suspect he may be struggling with his chosen role.”

“Well.” I uncork a bottle of wine and somehow restrain myself from pouring thrice as much as I usually would. “He is not alone in that.”

“No.” Grey sighs. “He’s not.” He pushes his glass toward me.

He almost never drinks. I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs.

I pour.

I’ve drained half of mine before he reaches for his glass, but he takes the smallest sip before setting it back on the table. His eyes follow my motion, though, watching the tilt of my glass, or maybe the curve of my fingers around the stem, or my lips or my throat or—

I need to put this glass down. My cheeks are on fire, my thoughts a million miles away from where they should be.

He’s tracing a finger around the base of his glass, and I blush. “I thought we were both going to be reckless,” I say.

But of course, he’s never reckless. Never careless.

Grey confirms it when he says, “I should be with your guards, Lia Mara.”

He’s probably right, but the words pierce my heart. Then I realize he hasn’t moved. Those dark eyes are still fixed on me, his long fingers still tracing endless circles around the glass.

Fight for yourself, Nolla Verin said.

I swallow. “I want you to stay with me,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes and draws a breath, and then he drains half his glass.

Abruptly, he sets it down and shoves the wine away. “Silver hell. That will lead nowhere good.”

I don’t know if he means the staying or the wine, but I want to challenge him to drink it. For once, I want to see him lose control.

The very thought makes me flush. At least one of us is being responsible. The whole reason he’s here is to keep me safe. To keep assassins out. He can’t very well do that if he’s drunk.

I push away from the table and return to stare out the window, resting my fingertips against the icy chill of the frame. The cold is startling and stabilizing, and I take a deep breath. “Go if you must,” I say. “My guards will likely welcome the—”

Hands close on my waist, and I gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs, holding me still. His breath touches my hair, the skin of my neck. His hands are always so gentle, but I can feel his strength. My heart gallops along in my chest, but I want to lean into him, to let his arms close around me and capture my thundering pulse.

“There will be talk,” he says, his voice low and intent. “Even if I do nothing more than stand guard inside your door while you sleep, your guards and servants will talk. There will be no quelling the rumors.”

I think of him on the field, facing Solt, doing what he can to control my soldiers without defying my wish to rule without violence, trying to maintain control without giving the impression that he’s countermanding me. I consider everything Nolla Verin said and wonder if I’ve been crippling everyone around me with my own self-doubt. I’ve spent so much time worrying about what everyone else wants, worrying about how they see me, that I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I want.

“Then let there be talk,” I finally say.

“Lia Mara—”

“I don’t care.” I turn in his arms and look up at him. “Wait. Do … you?”

“It would be difficult for your people to think any less of me.” Grey frowns. “But I do not wish for them to think less of you.” He lifts a hand to trace a lock of hair that’s fallen against my cheek.

“I think rather highly of you,” I say softly. His thumb brushes along my jaw, and I shiver.

“I’m relieved someone does.” His finger strokes down the length of my neck, so lightly, like he’s not sure if he should dare. His touch is almost weightless as his hand drifts across the slope of my shoulder—before he draws back.