As I finish the story, my eyes fall to his four-poster bed at the other end of the room. My throat tightens. Before I can stop them, images flood my head. Is Rian going to fuck Sabine in that bed? When? Tonight?
I manage to tear my thoughts away from the mental picture of my master and the girl I crave fucking each other, and focus on the most important part of my report.
“The spy who set the fire at the Manywaters Inn was one of the raiders.” I hesitate before delivering the rest, knowing how significant it is. “They were sent by King Rachillon.”
One of his eyes twitches; otherwise, his face betrays no emotion. After so many years running a gambling empire, he knows how to mask his true thoughts. Does he already know about Volkish incursions into Astagnon? About King Rachillon’s rise to power?
I can’t fucking tell.
His hand dips into his pocket for his Golath dime, which he absently toys with between his fingers. “You’re certain?”
“They told Sabine as much. And they had the Volkish look. Not to mention the starleon—where else would it have come from if not across the border?” I fold my arms tightly. “Did you know about the wall breach?”
He lifts his shoulder with the decorative harness in an ambiguous shrug.
I add, “On the road, we heard of several more godkissed kidnappings. And there’s that business up near the border I told you about. The possible goldenclaw who killed a godkissed girl, though now I’m thinking she wasn’t killed, but abducted. And not by the goldenclaw, but raiders who came across with it. With your leave, I’d like to investigate the area more thoroughly.”
At the time, Rian dismissed my suggestion about a goldenclaw’s appearance as readily as he had the hermit last year who claimed to see a monoceros. Now, I wonder if my report wasn’t the first he’d heard of a goldenclaw in the Blackened Forest. If maybe he’s known about ancient magic crossing the border for years.
“Don’t worry about it, Wolf,” he says, waving his fingers. “I’m sure if such things were happening, I’d know.”
There’s an edge to his voice like he does know about it—probably far more than I do.
“Rian—”
“Enough.” He claps a hard hand on my shoulder, silencing my objection. His eyes start hard, but it isn’t long before they soften, and he says with sincerity, “You brought Sabine to me. I’m grateful. I knew there was no one else who could.” His smile turns devilish. “I think you’ve earned yourself a night in Alyssantha’s Boudoir. Work out some of that aggression from the raiders, eh? Tell the madame I said you could have as many whores as can wear out your cock.”
He winks.
Guilt ties my throat in fucking knots. I want to scratch off my own skin to get rid of the memory of thrusting into Sabine, being ready to betray everything in the world I held dear for her. And now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Fuck a whore and wish it was her, while Rian seduces the girl I want? Help him win Sabine over by telling him all her secret hopes and fears? Attend their fucking wedding?
My nerves jangle like carriage bells.
Keeping my voice gruff, I sidestep the offer to whore the night away in Duren’s finest brothel, and say, “On the point of Lady Sabine’s safety, given that Volkish raiders already targeted her once, I think it best I keep watch over her. You said yourself that you don’t trust anyone else to do it. Post me as her bodyguard.”
Rian takes his hand off my shoulder, then returns to toying with his Golath dime as he leans against one of the leather seats. There’s an odd gleam in his eye. “I’m surprised, Wolf. I thought you’d be thrilled to return to the solitude of the woods instead of babysitting a spoiled noblewoman.” He cocks his head. “Did you fall under her spell?”
I ball my fist behind the table, where he can’t see. Scoffing, I bark, “Of course not.”
He assesses me closely, searching for the truth. It’s a while before the tension breaks and, with a tight smile, he says, “I was merely teasing. Wolf Bowborn’s heart is made of stone, isn’t it?”
I laugh lightly, nodding.
Rian paces by the map table, arms folded, deep in thought. Finally, he shakes his head. “I’m not granting the post, however. You can go back to your grouse.”
Surprise cuts through me, forcing my spine straight. Harder than I should, I demand, “Why not?”
Rian’s eyes gleam dangerously. “Because you had the choice between my personal service or the woods, and you chose the woods. You wanted out, Wolf. Of this family’s business. Of this life. I let you out. It’s too late to decide you want back in.”
The air in my lungs is all sharp edges. My pulse raps hard in my veins. I didn’t know that asking to get out of the business of murder, extortion, and arson had borne such a weight on Rian. He’s wounded. Stung. Ever since I changed my surname to Bowborn and took up a quiver, he’s been more distant, but I chalked it up to the fact that I was gone hunting for weeks at a time, whereas once we’d been together daily. But now it’s clear—he distanced himself on purpose the last few years. I left that rough life, but he never can.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “My lord, I truly believe that Lady Sabine—”
He claps another hand on my shoulder. It isn’t angry this time, but it is conclusive. His voice holds a trace of regret as he orders, “Go shoot grouse, Wolf.”
Chapter 27
Sabine
I’ve never stepped foot in any structure as grand as Sorsha Hall. It dwarfs my father’s manor house like a kitten before a lion. Even the chapel at the Convent of Immortal Iyre, with its altar of prized treasures—a golden chalice, a crystal decanter—is laughably plain compared to the riches in the castle’s entryway alone.
My head spins at the dizzying opulence that drips off every surface. The stained glass windows bathe the decor in muted rainbow colors: the crystal chandeliers, the ornate candelabras, benches upholstered in velvet, the high arched ceilings. The delicate, spicy smoke of aloeswood side-winds out of ormolu incense holders placed at every window’s base. I’m overwhelmed by the assault of so much grandeur. The colored light stings my scratchy eyes. The smells of incense and roasting meat and musty drapes are too rich, too cloying. Maybe I’d feel differently if I was at my prime; but I’ve come off a hellacious twenty-one-day ride. My thighs are chaffed raw. My bones ache from sleeping on tree roots every night. I’ve been kidnapped, nearly raped.
I couldn’t care less about a gods damned tapestry, even if it was woven by Tarrian priests.
“You’ll note that the architectural molding here varies from what we saw downstairs,” Serenith tells me, pointing a graceful finger toward chiseled stone accents along the window frames. “These are fae axe patterns, in honor of Immortal Vale. Though the Valvere family worships Popelin, they still wanted an ode to the King of Fae.”
I limp after her, wincing with every step on my heel’s puncture wound. We’ve traversed so many staircases and hallways that I feel trapped in one of Immortal Meric’s endless mazes. I’m shivering beneath the cloak, though the castle feels warm. It’s all I can do to keep putting one foot in front of the next.