Page 24 of The Enemy’s Daughter

My sleep is fitful and packed with flashes of a clan war and Annette’s hateful glare.

It also doesn’t help that my back hurts. I stretch, arching my spine, and press into something warm. My lips pull into a slow, languorous smile—Tristan.

We fell asleep on the couch.

My eyes open with a blink. The sun is a pink and orange haze that barely touches the sky, but it’s rising fast. I snuggle into the cocoon of Tristan’s body, and he responds by tightening his arm around my stomach. It stokes the connection, and I release a little gasp of pleasure as I fall into the wonder of him, the edges of our minds blurring and blending together.

He’s awake.

“Is that going to happen every morning?”

I ask, marveling at how I can simultaneously sense the discomfort in his shoulder from lying on it, while also feeling on the inside that he’s smiling.

Tristan’s chest rises and falls against my back. “I hope so.”

I spin in his arms and hug him tightly, my head tucking perfectly into his neck. “I hope so too.”

But my happiness is pierced by a thorn of sadness when I remember my not-so-happy dreams. Now that my decision to stay is made, the impact of what that will mean back home is sinking in. There will be consequences. For Father and the clans. The discord and power struggles the clans faced before Liam won the position as Saraf will return with no marriage to seal his succession. Father was adamant that without me and my marriage to a clan leader, the clans would face incredible instability. And although I’ve decided that saving lives is worth the strain this will put on my loved ones, I still worry for them.

How bad will it get for Freia and Mum and Percy as the clans fight over leadership and possibly fall apart? Will I ever see them again?

And Liam—does he not deserve the dignity of an explanation on why I’ve disappeared? Why I am not going home? He may have been given my hand without my permission, but he was my friend first, and I did imagine a life with him. It doesn’t feel right to simply move on and hope he does the same.

“Hey.”

Tristan lifts his head, his eyes cracking open with concern. The bruises underneath them are only slight shadows now, more of a violet hue. He couldn’t be cuter, with a layer of scruff lining his jaw while light brown waves tumble around his face. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about us”—I give a weighted sigh—“and what being together is going to cost.”

He looks thoughtful as he runs a warm hand down my back. “Well, I don’t know what it’s like back in Hanook, but in Kingsland, being married is free. It’s not going to cost us anything.”

I groan appropriately, then poke him in the side. He yelps and shifts away.

But my thoughts are too heavy to keep up the playful mood. I settle back down beside him. “You know . . . by choosing to stay here, I’ll be labeled a traitor back home—if they ever find out.”

“You’re not a traitor.”

My eyes close. That’s not how it’ll be perceived by the clans. And my choice could cost me my life, should they ever find a way to bring me to justice.

“You’re not a traitor,”

Tristan repeats, but firmer.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so much like one if I could do more for the clans. I push up onto my elbow but take my time before speaking. “Have you . . . considered how bringing justice against my father could make the clans put away their differences and unite against you? Then everything I’m trying to accomplish by staying here would be for nothing.”

“Yes,”

Tristan says softly. He inhales a deep breath. “It’s why I plan to ask the town council to show more patience. For now. Though . . . that might be difficult since I’ve been asking for the opposite, and the leadership is beyond restless.”

My eyes go wide. “You were going to . . . Tristan, are you saying that—?”

“I’m not turning my back on justice. I will always hope for it. But if you’re right that ending your betrothal cripples the Saraf and will lead to . . . well, I just think it’s wise to wait and see what happens.”

This is the first time he’s given me even a flicker of hope that retribution against my father might not be in our future. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I know you didn’t want peace—”

“I’ve always wanted peace.”

I pull back, and at my stunned expression, he pushes a lock of hair from my cheek. “We just had different ideas on how to achieve it.”

But he listened to me, and now how many lives will be saved?

“Then I know what I want to do with my time here. I mean, aside from the obvious, which is to glean everything I can from Dr. Henshaw.”

Tristan smiles. “Dr. Banks. I like it.”

A thrill sails through me at him using his last name on me. I do, too. I give my head a shake, trying to get back on track. “I want to help you become mayor.”

Enola was right: it has to be Tristan who’s elected. Nobody else would consider this kind of patience over war. I’ll have to discuss with her what more I can do.

Tristan’s chin drops. “I’m not sure I want it.”

“It is a big job. But you can do it, Tristan.”

You must. “You’re level-headed. You listen, and the people listen to you. Did you hear the way they quieted when you spoke at the funeral? They respect you.”

A warmth begins to gather in my belly, followed by a very pleasant swoop. I meet Tristan’s eyes, which have turned to pools of green.

“I like hearing you talk about me.”

His arm pulls me back to him in a hug.

I go still, caught up in the awareness of him. “I can do it some more if you’d like.”

My gaze falls to his lips.

Tristan groans, then drops his head back. “This is really bad timing, but I should probably warn you before people walk through the door: I have a meeting with the elite guard this morning. Probably any minute. Here in the war room.”

“Oh.”

I sag in his arms. Now that we’ve firmly moved past enemy status, I was looking forward to time alone. Time to get to know each other better—the real us.

He presses his lips to my cheek in a kiss, then speaks against my skin. “Seriously, Iz. You’re killing me. I’m two seconds away from locking the front door.”

No one has ever called me Iz before. I like it. “When will you be done?”

“It’ll probably take all day. Then we’re meeting with the town council this evening.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,”

I say, trying really hard to make it so. “Maybe I’ll go to the hospital and beg Dr. Henshaw to let me shadow him again.”

I pause. “Actually, I’ll need Enola to do that, but . . . I kind of got angry at her when I heard about your trip to Hanook.”

“I’m sure it’s already forgotten.”

I don’t know about that, and the thought that she might still be upset makes me a little sick.

Tristan sends me a memory of how to get to Enola’s house, then presses a kiss against my forehead. I lean into it, not wanting it to end. His mouth slides lower to place another one down by my cheek. My hand twists in his hair.

“Or I could be late for my meetings and take you to Enola’s myself.”

He ducks and his lips skim the delicate skin of my throat.

I sigh and lift my head, giving him better access to me. He pauses to nip at the corner of my lips and tingles race over my body, leaving me heady and hazy and desperate for more. Tristan’s touch is so much more intoxicating when he does it while inside my head.

“But then people would”—I briefly lose my train of thought as he greets my mouth with a proper kiss—“blame me for distracting you from your job.”

A job that, if he were to lose, could cost my people their lives. Reluctantly, I climb off the couch and adjust my clothes.

The heat coming from Tristan’s gaze could combust me into a ball of flames.

“We should . . . ah.”

My brain struggles to think. “Move.”

That’s not quite the word.

Tristan continues to watch me with a piercing steadiness I can’t read. He’s not conflicted. He definitely would like to continue with our kiss—or maybe that’s me. I wait for him to speak since he obviously has something on his mind. I don’t have to wait long. “I know how we met is messed up,”

he says. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I let his words marinate inside me before I respond. It’s like a bath in ecstasy. “Same,”

I mouth. Then I touch my lips and blow him a kiss, sending it with all my heart.

Tristan flinches.

“What just happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Tristan,”

Vador calls. He’s inside the house. Our time alone together is over.

Tristan sits up but still looks bewildered. “I felt that. I literally felt you kiss your fingers.”

My hand goes to my mouth, but this time in shock. No way. Vador walks through the back door. “There you are,”

he says to Tristan.

Tristan turns his head but can’t pull his gaze from me. His face never loses its smile. He’s extremely happy about this new discovery.

And although I don’t understand it, so am I.

After a quick bath, I choose to wear some of the more attractive clothing Enola brought over—an airy shirt with a short, light-as-a-feather skirt. Why not? There doesn’t appear to be a need for functional denim if I’m just going to see Enola. Taking extra care to comb my long hair in the mirror, I notice my cheeks have a soft blush to them. My color is returning. Or is it because of a certain boy? My thoughts flash back to yesterday—to murderously jumping him, then begging him for a kiss. The color on my face deepens. I hardly recognize myself anymore.

But I like it.

Not for the first time, a man shouts above the rumble of voices coming from downstairs. What is going on at this meeting? I step closer to the noise but stop, hesitant to spy on them as it might break the tenuous trust Tristan and I have started to build.

But as I slip out of my room and make my way down the stairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by a male voice cursing. The commotion grows louder as I pick up speed. Is it a fight? An intruder?

Someone from my clan?

“How can you be like a ghost, slipping through enemy territory, but then come home and can’t even carry a plate of food?”

Samuel’s booming voice asks with a laugh.

“It’s fine, Ryland,”

Tristan says. “Leave the mess for now. Let’s just get on with the vote.”

My eyes slide closed with relief.

“I don’t think our discussions have changed anything,”

says Vador.

What are they voting on? And why does Tristan sound frustrated? At the thought of his name, a stirring begins in my chest. A pulling. An unquenchable desire to be closer to him, and even though I don’t obey it, the connection casts a line between us. Tristan’s emotions—mostly his surprise—suddenly envelop me. That means . . .

Not again.

He knows I’m here now, listening. I sense his frustration, but after a few seconds of wading through it, I’m not sure it’s directed at me. Something else enters the mix—amusement.

“All for it, raise your hand,”

Vador says.

The room collectively groans. “A deadlock again.”

I turn to leave, but as I do, Tristan sends me a sliver of his memory of Ryland tripping and sending a plate of food crashing into the wall.

I smile, thankful he guessed the reason for my curiosity.

Another image arrives. It’s of Tristan rubbing his forehead, bored out of his mind. At the last second, he wishes he were with me. Ryland’s holding his plate across from him, so it must be a memory from before he dropped it.

I wish I was with him too. In response, I send him the memory of me standing in front of the mirror, admiring the glow on my face—and reflecting on the cause of it. It takes effort to recall the details since they weren’t as burned into my mind as some of the other memories I’ve sent.

The men and a couple of women continue to argue. “No,”

Samuel says. “Our water treatment system nearly choked on the spring runoff this year, and if we don’t secure another trader or two for spare parts and a purifier, a boil-water advisory is going to be the least of our worries.”

Isn’t Tristan’s team supposed to be focused on security? Or his upcoming election to be mayor? Why are they talking about water treatment?

As the question unfurls in my mind, a new one stops me in my tracks. Could I not think what I want to ask or say to Tristan, then send him the memory of that? We could communicate this way.

Before I get a chance to try, Tristan shows me a vivid recollection of his mouth on mine this morning. Our bodies are touching. My fingers tug on his hair—I don’t even remember doing that.

It hits like a shock wave. The scene cuts off, leaving me dizzy and warm. So very warm.

“We might have to pick our battles,”

Tristan says. “It’s not the end of the world to boil water indefinitely. It’s a whole other problem if we can’t get water to each household. Then we’re talking digging hundreds of wells and having to transport it in buckets like they do in the clans.”

How dare he send me a memory like that, then carry on like he’s picking dirt off his boot.

“That won’t happen,”

Vador says. “Reinert insists he can repair the parts that are on their last legs. Running water isn’t our problem; the challenge is the supply of chemicals to treat the water.”

“Maybe we ration,”

Tristan says. “A month where we boil water, a month where we don’t.”

Is he even the slightest bit distracted by what he just showed me? Tuning everything out, I rack my brain for the most intense, shudder-inducing memory I can think of with Tristan. Two can play this game.

But then an even better idea hits, and it’s so outrageous, I can barely contain my laugh. Who needs to send a memory when I can send him the actual thing?

“Our traders are having to go farther than ever before to harvest those specialized parts from previous municipalities, and not only is the price going up, but the parts are getting older. Maybe it’s time we go beyond the Republic and see what’s left out there.”

“Beyond the Republic?”

Samuel repeats in disbelief.

Making sure the connection is good and tight, I brush my fingers over the bare skin of my other arm, taking time to focus on the tingly sensation.

“It hasn’t been possible before, but—”

With every intention that he receive it, I send it to Tristan, hoping it arrives just as my air kiss did this morning.

Tristan’s words choke off. His shock resonates all the way to the marrow of my bones.

I smother a laugh with my hand, imagining what his face looks like right now. A sunny warmth from him that I can only equate to a smile soon follows. He’s onto me.

“We can’t spare any of our trained people,”

Vador says. “We need every single one to secure the border fence.”

I should go. Not only am I distracting him, but I need to find Enola. However, before I leave, I can’t resist one last parting shot. I allow my finger to find my lips, then I discover them with excruciating detail. The fullness. The tingly sensation as I follow the edge of the way they curve.

Send.

Tristan clears his throat. “It’s something to think about,”

he says, his voice noticeably tight.

Sweet victory sails through me.

“And let me guess, you’d want to lead the charge,”

Samuel says.

A chair scrapes against the floor, and an image of Samuel approaching flashes in my head—a warning from Tristan. Shoving off the wall, I bolt toward the front door with a huge smile. Then as an experiment as I leave, I whisper, “Going to Enola’s.”

I carefully relive the memory of speaking those words while sharing it with Tristan. It’s a little awkward and more challenging than talking to him directly, but theoretically, I don’t see why speaking through memories wouldn’t work.

I feel his temptation to come after me. To maybe cancel both of our plans. He doesn’t, and the connection fades with each step I put between us, then vanishes completely, leaving only a vague sense of warmth behind.