Chapter 28
The road north becomes rockier, and a layer of ice glistens under Bazil’s hooves.
I chew on my decision as we ride in silence.
The only sounds are hooves and the scurrying of small animals in the dry underbrush.
I’m not abandoning my home. I’m not deserting Isirae, leaving her to the monsters of the Rookery forever.
This country may have beaten me down since I was young.
It may possibly hold some of the worst humanity has to offer, but I won’t let Maziar Montbeth run me out of it.
The Frai’s warning sings in my head, the vision of Caene’s death dancing to its tune.
I’m likely risking my life by making this choice, but what’s worse is that I’m risking his too.
I should send him away to save him, or at the very least warn him what staying with me might bring.
I struggle to find the words. How do you tell someone you’ve watched them die?
I run through script after script in my mind, but nothing will pass my lips.
Caene shifts behind me and wraps the new cloak he bought from a rather plump traveler at the inn around my body, cocooning us both in warmth.
I was so distracted that I didn’t realize I was shivering, but now that the heat from his body is seeping into my skin, I’m suddenly aware of how cold it’s getting.
The trees are covered in frost, and small piles of snow linger under trees where the sun can’t get to them.
The higher we climb, the harder it is to keep the chill at bay.
The sun is beginning its descent behind the mountains to the west, dropping the temperature lower.
Despite myself, I lean back into Caene, resting my head against his shoulder, and sigh, grateful for the shared warmth, my eyes growing heavy.
“Who were they talking about?” Caene’s warm breath tickles my ear.
“Hm?” My brow furrows slightly in question, my eyes nearly completely closed.
“The Frai. They said you can’t save her.” I feel his voice rumble into my back.
I’m not sure I want to tell him about Isirae. But the Frai’s vague cautioning about her continues to echo in my mind.
I sigh again, fiddling with the hem of his cloak. “My friend,” I answer simply. He stays silent, waiting for me to continue. Is it time I trust him with this? He’s proven I can trust him with my life, but can I trust him with my heart?
“When I was seventeen, my mother died by suicide and I was left on the streets. I was starving, barely surviving. The Rookery is not kind to unwanted or orphaned children. And that’s what I was.
A child. A man approached me named Otyx Berttom.
He offered me food and shelter if I would pickpocket for him.
I agreed. What I didn’t know, what he neglected to mention, was that he was the owner of a bordello.
” I feel Caene’s muscles tense behind me, his knuckles turning white with his grip on the reins, clearly uncomfortable with this topic, but I can’t stop.
The words are pouring out of me. I’ve never told anyone but Isi any of this. I’ve never had anyone else to tell.
“He said if I wasn’t a good enough thief I would have to sell myself for him to make his ‘investment’ worth it.
” I pause and take a breath to regain my composure.
Just talking about that skinny prick makes my blood boil.
“Lucky for me, I turned out to be an excellent pocket picker. Now I understand why. I could always sense when and where someone would be or whether or not they would catch me. Whether the pick would be worth it. The woman the Frai were talking about is my best friend, Isirae. No. She’s more than that.
She’s my sister. She’s a little older than me, has been there longer, and was offered the same deal before I was, but she wasn’t a very good thief. Too clumsy.”
I smile a little at the memories of her and the coat with the bells.
Those were the only times I ever heard her curse.
“We’ve comforted and protected each other for over a decade.
She’s so small, so sweet, so kind. I did most of the protecting.
The thought of leaving her. . .” I shake my head, blinking rapidly to clear the tears pooling on my lower eyelids.
“She’s my sister in every way that matters.
My whole heart. Leaving her for Kanas is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.
But I don’t know what else to do. If I turn back, if I go to her and bring her with us, I’m just dragging her into danger she has no business being in.
At least at the bordello, she might be safe from your father, be hidden .
. . I hope. Berttom may be an abusive, insufferable ass, but he’s better than a lot of other bordello owners.
And in the Rookery the bad is always better than the worse.
As soon as I understand what is happening to me, as soon as I can use my family’s gifts, I’m going back for her. ”
My voice drops to almost a whisper. “One hope to the next . . .”
He doesn’t respond, so I continue, “That’s what we say to each other when things feel dire or out of control.
We try to find the next hope, the next thing that might bring us a small spark of joy or relief.
It has helped keep us sane in a place where it would be all too easy to lose our minds. Lose ourselves.”
He’s silent for so long I start to wonder if he was even listening. I crane my neck to look at him. His eyes are hard and he’s staring straight ahead, his face blank. Irritation settles heavily in my stomach. I just shared something very intimate with him; the least he can do is look at me.
Asshole.
I face forward, trying to lean away from him. His arm tightens around my waist, not letting me go very far. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” His voice sounds strained.
“I don’t need your pity. We did just fine,” I seethe.
I feel him shift uncomfortably behind me. “I don’t pity you and I’m sorry regardless.” He clears his throat. “We should stop here for the night.”
He pulls Bazil off the road and into the trees, searching for shelter among them.
We come across a small clearing. He dismounts the horse and holds his arms up to help me down.
I ignore him, determined to get down on my own.
I still can’t figure out how to gracefully get off this godsdamn horse and I fall.
Again. This time Caene is there to catch me.
His arms tighten around me as he hugs me close to his body, my feet dangling off the ground.
I look up into his stunning, enticing eyes, and for a moment I’m locked in them.
His gaze drops to my lips. My tongue slips between mine, licking them in anticipation, in invitation, momentarily forgetting my irritation.
He leans in, his lips lightly brushing against mine, sending a current through my entire body.
He then gently places me on the frozen ground, not taking his eyes off me, and runs his hands down my ribs to my hips.
We stay this way, staring at each other for a long moment, his closeness causing my skin to heat.
Our bodies are pressed so closely together.
My hands wander over his sculpted arms as I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck.
I want him to kiss me. I want him. In every sense of the word.
I gently put pressure on the back of his neck, pulling him down to me, giving him permission.
We’ve kissed before, and we’ve been in much more intimate situations before, but this feels different.
This feels bigger. From the way he’s gripping my hips and looking at me, all lust and want and what I could almost mistake for fondness in his eyes, he feels the same.
I close my eyes as he slowly leans in, anticipation and excitement zinging through all my nerves.
He clears his throat and releases me from his grasp, pulling my hands from his nape, then steps to the satchels he somehow secured around Bazil’s belly beside my head and runs his hands through his hair, mussing it up more, the air around me suddenly colder. The moment gone.
Embarrassment heats my skin and turns my face into what I’m sure is a lovely shade of crimson.
I shake my head and remind myself of the look in his eyes after I shared my history, the apology I didn’t need or want.
Now, not only am I humiliated that my attraction, willingness, and want were so obvious, I’m insulted by his pity and his clear rejection.
“I’ll get some firewood,” I snap and stomp through the trees.
It feels a little like a childish tantrum, but I can’t bring myself to care.
His rejection stings and I don’t want to be around him at the moment.
I allow myself the time to soothe my ego as I dig through damp underbrush for twigs and branches.
When I return about half an hour later, Caene is sitting on a log, cleaning a small animal for our dinner.
I dump the wood at his feet and stomp to a nearby tree, sitting at its roots, bundling myself in my pilfered coat, a coat he definitely won’t be getting back anytime soon.
I’m unwilling to add to my embarrassment and admit I don’t know how to light a fire without matches.
“I’m sorry,” Caene says so quietly I wonder if I’ve imagined it. He won’t look at me.
“So you’ve said,” I answer anyway.
“I know. But now I’m sorry for my reaction.
You shared something of yourself, your past, with me.
I should have been more understanding. But the thought of anyone trying to take advantage of you like that makes me .
. .” His grip tightens on the knife in his hand.
“If I ever meet Otyx Berttom, I’m going to pull his intestines out through his throat.
” He looks up from cleaning the creature, his eyes burning into mine. I don’t doubt he’ll do exactly that.
For Death’s sake, why does that turn me on? I shake my head. Don’t open that door.