Bring Me Their Hearts(25)

“Aren’t you the same way?” I ask, tracing the leather over his broad chest with one finger. “You’re a noble, and yet here you are, stealing from your peers and giving to the poor. As if that will make up for the fact you live in an overly gilded cage while the common people starve and get purged by that madman of an archduke.” I laugh. “And you had the gall to call me a hypocrite.”

Through the gap in his cowl I watch his eyes. Nothing. He doesn’t so much as blink or swallow. He’s stone. If he’s affected by my touch at all, he’s very good at not showing it. There’s some halfway decent willpower in this one. I stretch my hand up to his jaw, cupping it, and he makes no move to stop me.

“Poor thing,” I croon. “Trying so hard to be good in a world that’s bad.”

It feels strange to touch someone new for the first time in a long time. Someone tall, someone with eyes that bore beneath the silk of my dress, down to my very skin. This close I can see his strict brows knotted beneath his cowl, the faintest outline of his lips. His frozen state breaks at my fingertips against his cheek. His gaze turns livid, and he slaps away my hand as if swatting a fly.

“How dare you touch me?” he growls. Such an indignant tone! If I was unsure of his lineage before, I am no longer—he sounded almost exactly like Y’shennria.

“You’ll quickly discover I dare a lot of things.” I smile. “Including the court. Your warning is pointless—you won’t stop me.”

“You’re so determined to suffer,” Whisper scoffs. I can’t help the giggle that escapes me, born of despair. Of irony. He knows so little. About me, about the world. About what’s coming for his precious friend the prince.

“Have you considered that maybe I deserve it, milord?” I ask.

Deserve every painful grain of it, the hunger snarls.

There’s a beat of utter silence. This time, he’s the one to approach me—two long strides and we’re barely grazing chests again, the warmth from beneath his leather armor pouring into me like a heady brandy. The hunger all but goes wild, clawing at me to tear his throat out. I’ve been close to humans before, but not this close. His voice is low, his will behind it iron.

“And what, pray tell, did you do to deserve it?”

I giggle again, this time lighter, and twirl away. “Now, now—a lady must keep her secrets, or she’s not very interesting.”

“A lady who chases down a thief so stubbornly would be interesting no matter the number of secrets she kept under her skirt.”

It’s a sideways compliment and a taunting trap all at once, and it sends a strange electric thrill through my spine.

“How do you know I keep my secrets under my skirts?” I ask.

“You’re right, I don’t know. I could check if you’d like, but something tells me your secrets aren’t the only things you want to keep intact.”

This time, my own laugh catches me by surprise. “You’re going to have to do better than maidenhead jokes if you want to get anything out of me, milord.”

“Not all of us are born with razor wits such as yours, milady,” he counters. I put on a halfhearted imperious air.

“Then get practicing. I expect you to be fluent by the time we meet again at the Welcoming. You will be at the Welcoming, won’t you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Miss?” A shout echoes then, the voice undoubtedly Fisher’s. “Miss, where are you?”

As entertaining as this is, Y’shennria will have my head if I linger. I turn to Whisper one last time, and curtsy facetiously at him before walking out of the alley.



To say Y’shennria is upset with my “reckless behavior and thoughtless cavorting” would be like stating there are three moons—painfully obvious and undeniably true.

“I said I’m sorry,” I remind her in the carriage. “I also said I didn’t undress myself in front of a bunch of nobles and dance in a fountain. So I really see no reason for you to be mad at me.”

Y’shennria’s lips purse tight. “Your lack of respect for what I’m—what we’re—trying to do is unacceptable. That heart locket of yours alone cost us four—”

“Witch lives,” I finish for her. “I know.”

“And then there’s the intelligence, the amount of paperwork and right bribes at the right time to get you declared as my kin—” She kneads her forehead and snaps, “Fisher, take us home.”

Fisher cracks the reins of the horses. “Right away, mum.”

“Don’t take it out on him,” I say. “I was the one who did all the ‘thoughtless cavorting.’”

“He let you,” she says. “It must not happen again.”

“No one ‘lets’ me do anything. I do what I want.”

“You do what I tell you to, or you don’t get your freedom.”

There’s silence in the carriage. I bite back helpless, angry words. She’s right. She’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. All I can do is watch the world change from modest buildings and storefronts to vast emerald lawns and perfectly manicured gardens. Like a gemstone in a crown, the noble quarter rests in the center of the city, gorgeous sandstone chateaus half hidden by greenery and grand statues.