But as soon as I climb a step toward the main set of doors, my muscles give out. My toe catches on the stair’s edge, and I stumble. The marble stairs rush up to meet me before I can catch myself—
Until two strong hands close over me.
It’s Basten. Of course it is. He’s there for me, keeping watch, even now when the distance between us couldn’t be greater. My throat bobs with a painful swallow.
He lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing and doesn’t let go, like his heightened senses perceive that my muscles are shaking, and I need support. One of my hands clamps onto his shoulder from instinct.
Our eyes meet.
Something stirs back to life in my broken heart. For weeks, I’ve entrusted this man with my safety. I’ve gone from loathing the sight of him to realizing that I actually very, very much adore the sight of him. The last thing I wanted was to fall for my jailor, so naturally, in a twist of fate, that’s exactly what happened. Yesterday morning, I was dreaming of a future with him. And even though my brain now screams at me that he’s a lying bastard, the furthest corner of my heart hasn’t yet gotten the message.
Part of me still wants him—wants to move back in time to the waterfall cave.
I may not be able to speak telepathically to Basten as I do with animals, but on that same deep level, I’m certain he feels it too. We’re bonded through the scars of the road. The wildcat. The Red Church’s confrontation in Charmont. Adan and the Volkish raiders—the bloodbath. How can I separate myself from him after all of that? Our fates have woven together time and time again until I’m not sure where mine ends and his begins.
A breeze kicks up. Fragrant petals flutter down from the woven flower canopy to dance around us like a rainfall of sunflower yellows and rose reds. Basten briefly closes his eyes. His fingertips dig in around my waist.
Low enough for only my ears, he murmurs, “Little violet . . . ”
And that’s all it takes to wake me up: his nickname for me on his lips. At once, I remember how he moaned those words while thrusting his cock into me, his hands worshipping my curves, his lips marking me as his.
Anger curdles the blood in my veins.
No. He doesn’t get to pretend like there’s anything left between us but hatred.
I tear away from him, hugging Rian’s cloak like a suit of armor. I forge my words into iron as I lock my gaze to Basten’s, and say in disdain, “I’ll be grateful never to see you again, Wolf Bowborn.”
Chapter 26
Wolf
The moment Sabine disappears into Sorsha Hall under the guidance of Serenith, with a pair of sentinels marching behind her, Rian turns on me sharply. His well-rehearsed smile vanishes. I like him better like this—when he’s just himself, not pretending. It’s getting rarer to see these days.
Keeping his voice low, he hisses, “What the fuck really happened on the road?”
The message I sent yesterday only briefly mentioned Sabine’s kidnapping and the fact that I killed everyone involved.
“It’s a lot to tell you,” I say, gaze shifting toward the Valveres. Those vipers. Especially old Eleonora, who only pretends to be senile. I know they have their ears pricked. As do the servants, half of which are spies. “Where’s Lord Berolt?”
It’s strange that Lord Berolt isn’t here to greet Sabine. Though it would be less of a greeting and more of an assessment. The moment Rian returned from Bremcote, a year ago, saying he wanted to marry a godkissed girl, Berolt got a fucking hard-on. He’s always craved godkissed offspring—I guess a godkissed grandchild is the best he can hope for now. I don’t know if he still performs his creepy experiments on godkissed, but at least Sabine’s child-bearing ability will spare her from his attention.
“A squabble at the Titan Taverna,” Rian says. “Just a hiccup, but he was required.”
He jerks his head for me to follow him into the castle. We pass through the arched foyer with its stained-glass window depicting Immortal Popelin’s dark brown grinning face, up a spiral flight of stairs, and down a long hallway to his bedroom. It’s an enormous room, the bed occupying only a small portion. He has a formal office elsewhere on the second floor, but this is where he conducts most of his business—the giant table with its map of Astagnon carved into the top, a desk stacked with books, a pair of leather seats where we’ve shared many a drink, and a rug that has seen so much blood I can’t fathom how the servants keep getting the stains out.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, going immediately to the sideboard where he stores his liquor. “No—first, tell me about her. Does she hate me as much as it seemed?”
“She does,” I grunt.
“Good. That means she has some sense in that pretty head. I’ll change her sentiment soon enough—mark my words.” He sloshes amber liquid into two crystal glasses and then passes me one. “What is she like?”
“Angry. Headstrong. Oh, and she fucking hates Immortal Iyre. You should take any shit down that has her emblem. Do you still keep tigers in the cells beneath the arenas? If so, don’t let her near them.”
Rian chuckles, not at all intimidated by the fact that his new bride could send every one of the exotic beasts he uses for fights to rip out his throat. “Is that how you got that scratch on your cheek? She sent a wild animal after you?”
Sabine gave me the particular scratch he’s referring to, but it’s close enough to the truth that I just nod.
“What else?”
I hesitate. Where do I start with Sabine? She’s a riddle of contradictions. Her kindness knows no end, yet she won’t hesitate to claw a villain like me. She watched me murder the Volkish raiders with dark delight. Then she daydreamed about us frolicking on the beach.
She’s more multifaceted than that hefty diamond waiting for her in her wedding ring.
“She was beaten and neglected in the Convent of Immortal Iyre. All twelve fucking years she was there. They kept her locked up. Tried to keep animals away from her so she couldn’t use her godkiss. If I were you, I’d give her every semblance of freedom you can. Trying to pin her down will only push her away. Encourage her godkiss, too. Let her talk to every four-legged thing in the castle. Give her perches for her room, dog beds for the floor.”
Rian listens closely, then goes to the door, waves over the chamberlain, and commands him to do what I’ve suggested. When he returns, he takes a long, thoughtful sip of his drink.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
I know that testing tone in his voice. I’ve heard it a million times, and I know how to handle it. With a shrug, I say wryly, “Only if you like a perfect face and perfect body and perfect hair.” I throw back the rest of my drink as casually as I can.
Rian laughs, clapping me on the back. “You see, Wolf? This is why I sent you to accompany her. Everyone else lies to me. But you see a beautiful fucking girl and call her a beautiful fucking girl. What happened to her hair, by the way?”
I stare into my empty glass. “Her kidnappers cut it off.”
His face darkens. “Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter. Ferra can restore it when she returns. Go on. Tell me everything.”
Leaning on the map table, I recount the journey’s highlights—leaving out some key points, like how I promised Sabine I’d betray my duty and then fucked her until she was moaning my name. Red creeps over my neck as I try to stick to the Red Church’s interference in Claremont and how we changed course as a result, then the fire in Blackwater, Sabine’s kidnapping, and the rescue. I’m not the best liar. Sure, I’ve learned tricks from the Valveres, but it never comes naturally to me. Fortunately, Rian’s had a few drinks already today, judging by his breath, and he isn’t at his sharpest.