Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Kieran
She’s braced for impact and expecting a punch, the kind of hit you don’t recover from.
I see it in the slight quickening of the pulse beating frantically to escape her skin. Her chest hitches and skips an inhalation and the color leaches from her cheeks. Her eyes squint but only for the briefest second.
The warmth of her skin seeps into mine and I want hinges to grow from my chest, so I can open it and push her inside, to always have her warmth with me.
I’m a madman.
I’m losing the threads of reality and yet the single point of steadiness is the quivering and absolutely furious woman beneath me.
It’s my job to subdue her—to take Morgan by the wrists, her arms wrenched behind her back, and march her past the audience so they can bear witness to her mortification. They watch her and catalogue each move she makes and every one she doesn’t.
They do the same with me, but worse, because I’m watched more closely. Morgan’s job is to blend in, and she’s failed.
How in the world am I going to pull this off? They’ll know.
“A tool,” she repeats in an undertone. “What if I don’t want to be used?”
“It doesn’t matter what you want.”
Underneath the burned sugar and roast meat, underneath the table polish and the old beeswax, there’s a scent uniquely Morgan. I can’t put my finger on it.
Her lip trembles. “It never has. Not once.”
The defeat in her tone wrenches me. “I won’t ask what you want.”
I shift slightly, and I grind my teeth.
“Come on, Kieran, put her in her place,” someone jeers.
I push down on her chest and absorb the erratic heartbeat, tuning out the others. They’re all Evie’s friends. My friends, if one wants to get technical with the terms, although I’d never count one of them as a confidant.
Morgan senses my distraction and bucks to dislodge me. I grind my knees to the floor on either side of her legs.
“In this place, in this life, what you want doesn’t matter. It’s what is good for the rest of the world, for the good of many.”
She sneers. “What do you know about it?”
“I know there are certain unsavory things you have to swallow if you want to keep the peace.”
It’s the wrong thing for me to say and I realize it the second the last syllable leaves my tongue. Her eyes spit venom at me and she bares her teeth, a flash of white, before she drives her legs up. From this angle, there’s no way for her to make contact. I have her pinned.
“Is that what your father is doing? Keeping the peace?”
She’s burning up with the need for violence, thirsty for it, and rather than stoking my own frustrations, this only strengthens my resolve.
My mind races, thinking of a way to keep her, to save her. For the rebellion.
For me.
“Is the slaughter of innocents all a part of the great General’s plan for peace?” Morgan writhes, shaking her head from side to side.
I spread my fingers across her chest like a collar. “You mean King Lochlain, don’t you, Fury?”
It’s different now that I know how she feels about our world and our rulers. And odd to see her lift her nose in the air, given our positions. Somehow she still manages to look down it, at me, at everything.
Fury is an appropriate name for her, so much better than Princess. Although she’s got a high and mighty streak she isn’t even aware of.
There’s a legend among the elders who spread their tales like a disease through whispers. The old stories survive only around campfires or against a child’s ear in the dark and multiply with every new victim.
The Furies were a group of three women with powers like thunderbirds who meted out justice to those deserving. They were swift and lethal and merciful depending on who is telling the tale and whether or not you believe it.
If a Fury marked you, there was no escaping your fate. You’d reap what you sowed at their hands. If only the stories were true because it would save me a whole lot of trouble.
Morgan fits the mark and the mantle. If those creatures weren’t pure legend, she’d be one of the trio, and probably leading the pack.
She skids her heels across the floor, sullen, her back hunched. “Let go of me.”
“Not until I know you’ll stop fighting me.”
“I’ll never stop fighting. I will stand against you and people like you until my last breath.”
I believe her. There’s no way on this green earth I plan on letting her go to the mines. Her pulse skips another beat and blotches of color dot her face from exertion. I’m not going anywhere.
Neither is she.
I push off her but before she has a chance to scuttle off, I grab the front of that hideous gray dress and haul her to her feet with me.
“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder again,” I say with a smile.
She growls, slashing at my face with her nails like a feral cat, leaving me no choice but to follow through. I grunt when her ribs collide against me and her knee drives straight where it doesn’t belong.
Morgan beats against my back. I’ve watched this girl manage to get close enough to ruin too many times to count, and she’s managed them all with the competence of a soldier on the front lines. My guess is, if given the opportunity, she’d hand out justice with compassion and understanding.
Patience? No.
I breathe deeply and pull air into my lungs.
My decision made on the tip of a pin, and just as painful as driving it into my skin, I march toward the door.
“Move.” The barked demand has Evie’s friends scurrying out of the way.
It’s the voice I use when I lead my father’s legions. The voice that forces strangers to jump in the air and do whatever command I’ve issued.
Morgan has to stay at DragonSpear. It’s the only thing I know, besides the fact that keeping her as a member of the staff is out of the question. No way will I be able to spin this in such a way to keep her working. Not to mention Mrs. Milkin.
The woman’s lips are permanently molded to the shape of Ryson’s backside. He does the talking for the royal family, the mouthpiece of the monarchy, and Milkin is one of the countless millions in Manifest who lap up every word.
She’ll go out of her way to keep me and my cousin happy while we’re here but keeping Morgan might just push her beyond her boundary of tolerance.
Not to mention what will happen when Evie recovers. She’ll heal, of course. When she does, she’ll go straight for Morgan’s throat. There are no protections for the maids. Morgan will be forced into a position where she’ll protect herself—
And be damned to the mines again.
But as a student, Morgan has a chance. She should have been here learning anyway.
I make it to the open dining hall doors and round the corner before I pull up short. Astrid holds out a hand then ducks to avoid getting kicked in the face.
Morgan is still shouting and cursing to free herself. I’d tuned her out.
Strain lines furrow Astrid’s brow. “Where are you going?”
“The main office.”
I cut forward and Astrid trails me with impressive speed while pointedly staring ahead. Not looking at Morgan. Not reacting to the screams. Hers is the second sound of boots thumping the marble floors. My own click against the floors unusually hard, echoing down from the cavernous ceiling.
Evie’s friends can go to the Void for all I care, as long as they don’t follow me.
“Kieran, are you sure this is what you want to do?” Astrid asks. “You have to be sure.”
“I thought you were bringing the cavalry with you? Did you dump Evie with the healers and march right back to twist my ear?”
Astrid sniffs, displeased with my nasty tone. “Rude. You should thank me for making sure your girlfriend doesn’t scar. I came back to make sure you weren’t going to do anything stupid.”
Like I’ve already done. She doesn’t need to say the rest of the statement for me to hear the reprimand plainly.
My gut pulls and goes watery. I’ve messed up too many times to count.
“You’re seriously going to Harbi? What do you think is going to happen? She won’t bend a knee to you no matter how prettily you plead. Unlike the others.” Astrid crosses her arms over her chest.
The free afternoon keeps most of the halls empty. But soon they’ll fill when the bell rings for dinner.
“I need to speak to Headmistress Harbi before I do anything,” I insist. “For once, can you please trust me?”
I have no concrete reason for what I’m about to do, nothing I can give Astrid to soothe her or convince her. I’m pulling on our history and our friendship for this one.
Astrid trails us along the hallways toward the main office. “This is a terrible idea. I’ll say it once, so you understand me. It’s going to cost you more than you’re aware.”
Morgan’s screams take on a keen wail at that.
Head ringing, eardrums about to be blown out, I finally set her down in a wooden chair beside the door.
“Astrid, you have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do, because I know you,” Astrid clarifies. Her hard gaze bores holes in my skin. “At least I’ve given you a warning. I’m not going to stick around and watch you damn us. Our efforts are wasted if you fail.”
Astrid doesn’t need pomp and circumstance to cut a dramatic exit. She manages it with an eyebrow raise and without warning, she simply stops walking.
Morgan rises from the chair in the same beat, like I’ll be too distracted with Astrid to notice her. I clamp my hand down on her shoulder. “Stay.”
The word hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us wants to acknowledge.
“I’m not your pet,” she snarls, but there’s something breathless in her voice.
“No. You’re something far more dangerous.”
Morgan’s fury bubbles over like the heated core of the earth pushing through a crust of dirt.
“On second thought—” I use my free hand to unloop the leather thigh holsters I always wear when riding.
In the next beat, I wrap them around her wrists and bind her to the chair with precise knots. Her ankles follow until all four limbs are strapped to wood. The chair itself is ornate and intricate, the arms curling in like the clenched claws of a phoenix.