Chapter 13 #3
"I'm not helpless," she said. "Take your hand off me."
Somadina's eyes dropped to the pin, to the blood staining her skirt. His jaw clenched as frustration flickered in his gaze.
"You'd rather hurt yourself than let me touch you? Am I that unworthy in your eyes?"
"Yes."
He was unworthy; even having him close made her want to vomit.
The word hung between them.
His hand didn’t fall away; he grabbed her chin, leaning down, his free hand on her bed.
A loud sound interrupted him, resonating throughout the palace, reaching the isolated shrine.
Three strikes of a gong. The call to council—all men of high standing were to leave their homes and meet the Igwe immediately. It was a summon Somadina could not ignore.
He paused, his lips pursing, but he said nothing. Within moments, he was gone.
Azul waited until his footsteps faded. Then her body gave out.
She slid off the bed, hitting the floor hard. The cold wood against her skin was a relief—a temporary balm against the fire.
Foreign boots landed softly on the floor. A shadow crossed her vision, then resolved into a face she recognised.
Near-black eyes, furrowed brows.
So you stayed.
He knelt beside her, his expression unreadable.
"That man is your betrothed? Your prince?"
She laughed.
Absolutely not.
"Please do not curse me; my life is rather fickle as is."
Something shifted in his expression. Almost a smile.
He bent down to lift her once more; to keep her back up against her bed frame, he sat down beside her, willing to talk.
"I've seen men try to break women before, on the Steppes. They use different methods—whips, hunger, fear. Sometimes poison." His eyes met hers. "I suppose in this place it is no different."
She gave him a sound of agreement. In all of Oblivia, there was nowhere women did not suffer under the hands of men.
"But here, the women are a little more terrifying. I have seen many schemes; needles hidden in fine fur is new."
Azul hummed, her throat dry. "She's a little scary—aphrodisiacs don’t usually leave evidence. The needles would’ve been hard to spot unless one was looking for them."
"And the man I killed."
"There are three ways to remove a pesky princess; one is to ruin her reputation. My reputation, from what I hear, is already quite bad; I suppose this was meant to be an efficient finishing blow."
Ragnar's expression hardened.
"What's her name?"
Azul almost smiled. "Are you planning to kill the First Wife for me, stranger?"
"I'm collecting debts." He met her eyes. "You saved my life. I killed one man for you. I can kill another."
She believed him.
"The Ugoeze," she said. "But there’s no need to do such a thing. If you strike now, you'll die, and I'll lose my investment."
His brows twitched. "Investment?"
Perhaps no one had ever called him such a thing before; still, she meant it. "You owe me a life. I intend to collect it at maximum value."
"Oh?" he asked. "How long am I supposed to serve then? Until I die?"
She giggled. "Something like that."
"...Audacious woman, I will forgive you this time."
She let her head drop back, looking at her ceiling.
She felt sleepy—perhaps by morning he would be gone.
"You can stay," she said, her voice already soft at the edges with exhaustion. When last had she gotten any sleep? She couldn’t recall. "If you want. I don't mind."
Then her breathing evened out, and she was gone.
Ragnar watched her. The poison had perhaps been too kind—that was the problem.
The flush had spread from her cheeks all the way down her throat, deepening the warmth of her skin, and her robes were in disarray.
Her hair was loose and thoroughly undone, falling across the floor in a pale spill.
Her lips were slightly parted. The hand in her bloodied lap was open.
The same hand that had pressed into his stab wound last night until his vision went white.
He remembered being on his knees in front of her—remembered it so vividly that it was becoming a problem.
"Tsenkhinn Narvaal," he murmured.
He thought it was simply because his injuries had clouded his mind that he saw her that way, but he was wrong.
I don't mind. Her voice echoed in his head; he pressed the back of his hand hard against his mask and breathed through his nose.
She had giggled just now, briefly, as though she'd surprised herself, but it was best he stopped thinking about it.
The poison had stripped away whatever composure she maintained during waking hours and left something underneath that she hadn't chosen to show him.
Tsenkhinn Narvaal, the old stories said, never knew her own power.
That was what made her dangerous. She didn't use her beauty in any meaningful way; she only watched and let men destroy themselves of their own volition.
Ragnar exhaled, feeling his shoulders sink.
He once more opted to look at the window, unwilling to keep staring at her.
The Steppes were vast and cold and full of people who wanted him dead, but he never had any difficulty returning to them.
He found, with some alarm, that tonight was a little different.