The Winner's Crime(19)

As for Thrynne … she had a plan.

“Very well,” Kestrel said. “Tell me your friend’s name. I’ll share what I know in honor of the protection you gave me after the Firstwinter Rebellion. A Valorian remembers her debts.”

Arin stayed very still. “I hadn’t realized I had done anything that begged repayment. What I did, I did for you.”

“Precisely. So ask. I will answer. We will be even.”

“Even? If you insist on seeing things that way, you and I will never clear our debts.”

“Do you want your information or not?”

“What I want…” He muttered the words. Then his voice steadied and came clear. “My friend’s name is Thrynne. He cleans. Floors, mostly.” Arin described the man’s features.

Kestrel pretended to think. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t recall seeing someone like him.”

“Maybe if you took more time to consider—”

“Doubtful. There are hundreds of servants and slaves in the palace. How am I to know each one?”

“So you give me nothing.”

“When have I ever given you anything?”

Softly, Arin said, “You gave me much, once.”

“Well,” said Kestrel, “as cozy as this little chat has been, I’d like to get back to my party.” She stepped toward the curtain.

His movement was swift. He blocked her path, hands coming down on either side of her to brace against the balustrade. He didn’t touch her, but was close enough now that she could see the dark shape of his mouth and the angry glimmer of his eyes. He said, “That’s not all I came for.”

She could smell the sea on his skin, stronger now: salty and sharp.

“Kestrel, this isn’t you.”

She pressed back against the chill glass. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“This voice you’ve been using, that bright one … do you think I don’t recognize it? It’s the sound of you laying a trap. Of you hiding behind your own words. And I know that the way you’ve been talking is not you. Say what you want about me, about what happened between us, about the shape of the sun and the color of the grass and any other truths in this world you want to deny. Deny everything until the gods strike you down. But you can’t say that I don’t know you.” He was now close enough that the air between them was alive against Kestrel’s skin. “I … have thought about you.” His voice dropped. “I have thought about how I have never known you to be dishonest with me.”

Kestrel’s laugh was robbed of breath. It was short, incredulous.

“Let me rephrase that,” Arin said. “You may have tricked me. But you were true to yourself. Sometimes even to me. You have never been false.”

“Are you forgetting that I sent my father’s army to crush yours?”

“I knew you would. You knew that I knew. Where is the lie? I’ve never felt that there was a lie on your lips. Please, Kestrel. Please. Don’t lie.”

She gripped the cold stone of the balustrade’s railing.

He said, “Do you know anything about Thrynne?”

“No. Now let me pass.”

“I’m not done. Kestrel … do you really want to marry the prince?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“Want and need aren’t the same.” His mouth hovered near hers. “Tell me. Is this engagement really your choice? Because I don’t believe it. Not unless I hear you say so.”

The glass against her back was a blaze of cold. She shivered. He was so close. All she had to do was uncurl her fingers from the balustrade and lean forward into him. It felt inevitable, like an overfull cup ready to spill.

The rasp of his unshaved cheek brushed hers. “Do you?” he said. “Do you want him?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it,” Arin murmured into her ear. The heat of him settled against her. His palm squeaked against the glass by her head.

“Arin.” She could barely speak. “Let me pass.”

His lips caught at the base of her neck, slid upward. “Prove that you want him,” he said into her hair. His kiss traveled across her cheek. It brushed her forehead, then rested right on the golden line that marked her engagement.

“I do,” she said, but her voice sounded like she was drowning.

His kiss was there, waiting near her lips. “Liar,” he breathed.

Her hand came between them, and pushed. She was shaken, startled by the way she had shoved him. She felt suddenly, cruelly starved—and angry at herself for this hunger of her own making. “I said, let me go. Or will you hold me here against my will?”

He recoiled. His boots scraped back. She couldn’t see his expression, only the way he snatched his arms to his sides and stood stiff. He covered his face as if it weren’t already hidden by the dark. He muttered something into his palms, then they fell away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He tore open the curtain, and was gone.

The light hurt Kestrel’s eyes. She blinked, her lashes wet, her vision too bright, blurry.

When her pulse had steadied and she could see and breathe and think again, she tentatively stepped into the hallway.

It was empty. She could hear music now. She hated to hear it. Her whole future was in that airless ballroom. She wondered if this ache inside her would ever go away—and if she might feel even worse when it did.