CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #3
“Sit. Down.” Rorrik flicks his gaze toward Micah before returning it to my face. “Be careful, novice.” When he glances at the others, the threat is clear. It won’t be me who suffers his wrath.
Tiernon gives him a warning look, which Rorrik ignores, his gaze returning to me.
I curl my lip at him. “The only thing you find fun is murder. Oh, and ruining people’s lives.”
I’m not sure why it’s so easy for me to mindpath with Rorrik—or why I do it so instinctively. Maybe it’s because he was the first person I ever mindpathed with. Maybe that’s why the connection is easier.
He gives me a wink, strolling over to sit next to his brother.
He leans over the table and dips his fingers into the Scent Shroud, swiping it beneath his own nose.
“Murder and life-ruining aren’t the only things I find fun.
” His gaze drops suggestively to my neck before lingering on my lips.
“Maybe you’ll learn all about the other things that amuse me, little rabbit. ”
I ignore that, returning my attention to the cards in my hand. I’m not sure what put Rorrik in such a good mood, but if he’s happy, there’s a relatively good chance someone else is cursing the day they were born.
The only other time I’ve seen Rorrik in this part of the ludus was the day my ankle was healed—when he sensed my blood and pain. From the wide-eyed look Deitra sends Neris—and the thin-lipped nod she gives back—they’re not used to seeing him here either.
Tiernon clears his throat, holding my gaze for a long moment, and his steady stare is all I need to pull myself together. I refuse to let his conniving brother get under my skin.
Rorrik sprawls elegantly in the seat next to Tiernon, and I’m suddenly struck by their similarities. When I danced with Rorrik at the ball, I’d had an aching sense of familiarity, and now that I know they’re brothers, it seems glaringly obvious.
Tiernon is shockingly handsome—with the kind of masculine features and rugged charm that make a woman look twice. If not for his reputation as Primus—and if his dimple appeared a little more frequently—he might even be … approachable.
Rorrik is so coldly beautiful, it’s almost as if he were touched by the gods.
Tiernon’s presence invites you to look again, to take a step closer.
Rorrik’s presence warns you to freeze in place, and then slowly creep toward the nearest exit—some part of you wishing he would notice you, even as your instincts warn you to flee.
And yet, despite their differences, I can see their resemblance in the broad planes of their jaws, the hard lines of their brows, the curve of their lower lips.
This explains my reluctant fascination with Rorrik, and my strange obsession with understanding why he is the way he is. My instincts were simply screaming at me that he was related to Tiernon.
“Arvelle?” My distraction has cost me, and Tiernon takes the round with a grin.
I pluck another coin from my purse, and my fingers brush the gold button I found on my pillow this morning.
A button he must have asked one of the sigilmarked to leave for me.
I placed it in my coin purse to keep safe, but the reminder sweeps me back to hundreds of gold buttons dropped in my eager palm until I finally accepted Tiernon’s friendship.
The look of bemused awe he’d given me that day was worth it. And yet … the entire time, he was lying to me about who and what he is.
No. I need to focus.
I study my cards for a long moment. And then I watch each of the others from beneath my lashes.
A muscle twitches in Micah’s jaw, and I almost shake my head at him. A bad hand, and still, he stubbornly stays in, refusing to fold once again.
Deitra curses and throws her cards onto the table. One of them flips up, and I make a mental note as Lucius swaps one of his own cards out. Neris adds a coin, her gaze pinned to her cards.
But one of her fingers has begun a slow, rhythmic tap on her thigh.
Rorrik’s expression is as coolly neutral as ever—in fact, I’m relatively sure I’ve seen him wear the same expression while contemplating murder.
I turn my attention to Tiernon. He’s already watching me, and I take a long, slow breath. He knows my tells. Just as I know his.
“Ah, what would you like to bet, Your Imperial Highness?” Deitra asks Rorrik, the muscles around her eyes tightening.
“Hmm. I know you like to bet favors.” Rorrik pulls out a piece of parchment, along with a strange pen I’ve never seen before. He presses the pen to his forearm, then scrawls on the parchment, the ink crimson.
My heart thrums in my chest. As much as I resent Rorrik’s presence, I can’t deny I’m pleased that he’s moving the game along.
I clear my throat, feigning confusion. “What are the limits to that favor?”
His eyes meet mine. “I won’t murder anyone I don’t already want dead. I am, however, prepared to be mildly inconvenienced for the sake of whoever wins my favor.”
I catch a few considering looks across the table. I’m not the only one who would like a favor from the emperor’s son.
“The ink is charmed,” Tiernon tells me. “The favors can’t involve anything that could risk the loser’s safety in any way.”
“Well,” Micah says after a moment. “I’m in.”
Neris snorts. “Shocking.”
Micah’s jaw juts out, and he gestures to Rorrik for the pen. Rorrik’s mouth twitches, and he hands it over.
One by one, we write out our favors. The pen presses into my skin with a slight sting, and a sour taste clings to the back of my throat as I watch my blood form words on the parchment. But this is exactly what I wanted. And now it’s time to truly play.
As usual, we begin with gold coins. The favors are used to increase the stakes. I win the round, and a favor from Deitra, who looks like she has tasted something bitter.
I take the next round, too, winning favors from both Micah and Lucius.
Micah gives me a mock glower. “You can’t be that lucky.”
“It’s luck and logic,” I murmur, already sweeping up my next hand. “When I lived in the Thorn, I spent hours playing these games.”
Years later, when I was bodyguarding, I’d watch hand after hand, standing silent as I fought off boredom so mind-numbing, if I hadn’t had my brothers to think about, I almost would have wished for the excitement of the arena.
“Don’t be a poor sport,” Neris tells him.
Tiernon winks at me, and I hide my smile behind my cards. I’m not at all surprised when he takes the next round, winning a favor from Rorrik, who takes the round after that.
“My brother taught you this game, didn’t he?” Rorrik’s voice is a low taunt.
I stiffen, ignoring him.
The corner of his mouth curves, revealing a hint of fang. “You play just like him. I know, because I used to play him too.”
I can’t imagine them as children. Can’t imagine them ever playing together or even cooperating in any capacity.
“I know what you want,” Rorrik says when I don’t reply. “You’re hoping to bargain your way into the imperius.”
I startle, my hand clutching my cards. When I meet his gaze, his eyes are steel.
“When you’ve lived the kind of life I have, you’ll find most people—and their motivations—are entirely predictable. You’re hoping to beat Tiernon. I wouldn’t recommend using his favor in such a way. If he’s seen skirting the rules for you, things will go badly for him.”
I raise one eyebrow. “As if you care.” Silence. I chew on my lower lip, gazing sightlessly down at my cards. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I can also get you a spot on the imperius.”
I go still. “The imperius is Tiernon’s.”
Rorrik lifts his gaze from his cards. “If I want to add a novice to the pool of imperiums willing to put their lives on the line for my father, I can do so.”
“And will you?”
“Perhaps. If you manage to beat me.”
There’s a spark of something in his eyes. An invitation to … play.
Ah. Rorrik is bored.
And he’s also likely enjoying the strained glances Tiernon is sending our way. He knows I’m deep in conversation with his brother.
Which is, of course, why Rorrik is taking this public game and making it a private competition between him and me.
“I don’t trust you.”
His eyes glitter with displeasure. But his words from the bathroom are still echoing in my head. I can still see him at my lowest moment, twisting the knife as he watched me hungrily, enjoying my pain.
He quirks one eyebrow and I stare him down. “Let me be perfectly clear, Rorrik. You succeeded. I don’t trust you. And I will never trust you.”
Rorrik places a card down, taking another. But a muscle jumps in his jaw, and I don’t miss the predatory gleam in his eyes.
My hand is strong, but Rorrik has successfully distracted me, and I have no idea what the others have. I’m forced to fold, and Tiernon sweeps up my favor with a smirk.
I write another, and his smirk widens to a grin, his dimple flashing. Something wrenches in my chest. Gods, I missed that grin.
I’m still so, so angry at him. But I know exactly how fragile joy is. I know how happiness can be snatched from you without warning. And seeing him here, relaxed and enjoying himself … it’s a brutal reminder of the years we shared.
His gaze turns tender. I know that look. I used to see it right before he dragged me into his arms.
“Primus,” someone calls. Orna stands at the door to the common room, her face pale. An expressionless mask slams onto Tiernon’s face, and he gets to his feet, following her into the hall.
Lifting my new hand, I survey my own cards.
My hand is good. Really good.
I swallow, conscious of Rorrik’s attention on me. I have no doubt he’ll notice the slightest change of my breathing, the barest flicker of my eyes.
Neris folds with a scowl. Lucius pulls another card, and I study him beneath my lashes. He licks his lips when he has a particularly good hand, as if hungry for victory.
He’s not licking his lips now, though. No, his lips are pressed tightly together, even as he keeps his gaze carefully away from his cards.