Grace and Fury (Grace and Fury #1)(50)

Did he enjoy her discomfort? Did he revel in the knowledge that she was at his mercy?

He was quiet for so long, she said, “What are you thinking?” just to break the silence. She expected him to tell her it was none of her concern.

But he cocked his head, still studying her, and said, “I think you would have been better suited to another time.”

Nomi huffed out a breath. “What does that mean?”

Impertinent. Why could she never hold her tongue?

He eyed her narrowly, almost as if he were gauging her reaction. Then his gaze focused suddenly on her arm. He grabbed her hand again, raising it to reveal the purple half-moons on her wrist where the Superior’s fingernails had dug into her skin. He stared at it for a long time. “Did my father do that?” he asked at last.

“Are you surprised?” Nomi looked at the sky, now hung with stars, bright as a million crystal chandeliers, and wished she could be up there, far away.

“You are not his to touch.”

Nomi’s eyes widened at the undercurrent of anger beneath Malachi’s words. But of course. She understood.

It was a question of property.

Her fury rising, she said, “Because I am yours to touch, you mean.”

His gaze dropped from her face for a second. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d shamed him. Then his brows rose. “You have something.…” he said instead, and then faltered. He pointed toward her bosom.

Nomi glanced down and lost her breath. A corner of the letter was peeking out of her bodice.

Her face flamed. Her heart stopped. Her brain scrambled. She covered the paper with her hand. “A—a part of my dress, Your Eminence. So embarrassing.” She curtsied and excused herself.

She hurried to the lift, weaving around the circle of dancers, her head down. Once in the lift, she turned, just as the ornate metalwork closed. She looked out at the graceful dancers, twirling around the musicians in the center. A flash of green flew past—Maris in the arms of an older, portly gentleman with red lips and a sheen of sweat along his brow. Her eyes were blank and unfocused, her movements precise and controlled. She was smiling, but there was misery in every line of her body.

If Malachi cared so much about the Superior touching his Graces, why didn’t it bother him that other men did too?

With a whoosh, the lift dropped, obscuring Nomi’s view.

Hurriedly, she stuffed the edge of the letter out of sight. How could she have been so careless?

The small metal box stopped, and the door slid open. There were fewer torches here. More shadows. It was quieter, the music and laughter from above muffled. The narrow passage, paneled with wood, closed in around her.

The other lift swished down. Its doors opened, revealing a palace guard, wide and weathered as a mountain. She stepped back, head down, to give him room. Down here, the gentle rock of the boat was more pronounced. Her stomach tumbled into her throat.

The guard didn’t walk past.

“Follow me,” he said gruffly. She’d become accustomed to the silence of the men in the Graces’ chambers. His voice sent panic through her. She followed him, even as every muscle strained to pull her the other way. Her heart pounded, escape, escape, through her blood.

They passed one servant. She could hear laughter and the thud of feet from the deck above, but saw no one else.

Bats exploded in Nomi’s belly when the guard opened a door and gestured her into a tiny room. He left her there, alone, in the dark.

Nomi fought back tears. Malachi had seen the letter. And now he would punish her for it.





TWENTY-FIVE



SERINA


SERINA STOOD AT the edge of the stage with Oracle. Somewhere behind her, Jacana was sitting with Gia and Theodora, Cliff was ordering the new girls not to cry, and Ember was standing near the crew, arms crossed over her chest. And above it all, the guards bet on which fighter would win. Serina wondered if Val had bet on her.

She couldn’t look for him; she couldn’t look at anything but the empty stage in front of her. In a few minutes, that pale stone would run with blood.

“Jungle Camp’s putting Venom in,” Oracle said, glancing to their left. “They must be desperate for the rations.”

“Why?” Serina asked, the word scratching her throat. Her hands tingled and her pulse pounded in her temples. The air held an electric charge, the heavy calm before the storm.

“She’s their best fighter. Stay away from her if you can,” Oracle said. “She likes to bite—coats her teeth in poison. No one knows how she withstands it herself.”

Venom caught them looking and smiled, exposing teeth filed to points. Serina thought she might vomit.

Oracle grabbed her arm to get her attention. “Pearl is fighting for the Southern Cliffs. She’s strong, with a wicked gut punch, but her knees are weak. Go for her knees.”

Swallowing, Serina nodded. She snuck a glance at the woman. With broad shoulders and narrow hips, Pearl towered over the leader of her crew. Even in the midst of her efforts to keep breathing, Serina had to ask, “How’d she get the name Pearl?”

Pearls were supposed to be small and delicate, weren’t they?

Oracle continued her inspection of the day’s champions. “She comes from a family of pearl divers. She was sent here when the authorities discovered she’d been working for the family business, even though women aren’t permitted to dive.” Oracle nodded toward a girl on the other side. “The Beach’s fighter isn’t their strongest. She’s favoring her left side, probably a training injury. Take advantage of the weakness.”