Page 11

I awaken in Tristan’s arms. He’s climbing the stairs.

Anger reignites inside me at knowing that he wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter my family if they suddenly appeared before him.

“Let me down,”

I mutter, unable to say it louder because my stomach is cramping, threatening to empty the little bit of water left in it. Sweat coats my skin as if I’ve run through the rain. It kills me that I’m so weak when I need to be strong.

His hold doesn’t relent, so I consider squirming out of his arms. But then I get an idea. We’re touching. Is it possible I could see one of his memories now that we’re so close physically? It could help me understand the layout of his house or how to escape their territory.

“She had a knife,”

Samuel grinds out from behind. “Where the hellfire did she get that from?”

Tristan grunts, his jaw tight. Annoyed. He’s also out of breath—he’s not fully recovered yet. So why is he the one carrying me?

It doesn’t matter. Focus. Think about how close we are . . . or whatever. I close my eyes and try to go there, searching for that connection, but my anger burns too hot to imagine anything but pushing Tristan away from me.

He kicks open the door to my room and the movement jostles my stomach. I cringe as he lowers me to the bed, and when he pulls his arm from beneath my back, our eyes finally meet. He’s angry too.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sir. It has to be said.”

There’s a small thud as a book hits the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Tristan demands.

I nearly ask the same as Samuel grabs another one, flips through it, then drops it beside the first. Doesn’t he know how precious books are?

“Obviously we need to search the room for weapons,”

Samuel says. “She’s probably stashed whatever else she’s found.”

My gaze jerks to the other side of the bed where I left the journal and bottle of pills out in the open. Fates.

“I wasn’t expecting company, and I forgot to remove my knife,”

Tristan says. “That’s it. There was only one.”

Samuel ignores him, sweeping the top of the bookshelf with his hand, and once again I notice how large and strong he is. His muscles bulge under his black, weapon-filled clothing. His nose has been broken too many times to be handsome, and there’s a scar that divides his left eyebrow as if it were a river through a field. Like Gerald, you can tell at a glance that he’s a fighter. A warrior. And considering Samuel’s penchant for poisoning his enemies, he’s extremely dangerous. Perhaps it’s good he’s not going to find anymore hidden weapons in his search.

“I’ll handle it,”

Tristan says.

“Or you could let me do my job. Sir.”

More books hit the floor.

“I’ll handle it,”

Tristan repeats, louder. “You can go.”

They have a brief staredown. Samuel isn’t used to taking orders from Tristan. Interesting.

“I’ll go . . . after I say one last thing.”

Samuel’s furious eyes slide to me. “If you wave a weapon at anyone again, or do anything that threatens our safety—anything—you will be locked up for so long not even he will be able to—”

“That’s enough,”

Tristan growls.

Reluctantly Samuel shuts his mouth, but his face says everything he didn’t: I’ll be watching you.

“Go, Samuel,”

Tristan says. “And send for Henshaw. Maybe he can figure out why she fainted.”

Though Samuel’s threat has deeply rattled me—especially since he isn’t leaving like Tristan told him to—Tristan’s words still register. My eyes narrow on him. What game is he playing? “I fainted because not only have I been poisoned, but you’ve withheld food and medicine from me for days. I’m lucky I could get out of bed at all.”

Tristan goes still. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying I’m onto you. You know you can’t keep me here, so you’ve starved me and kept me sick. You’ve done the equivalent of chaining me to this bed without ever having to lift a finger. But even still you locked the door with that piece of metal.”

My voice shakes, and I hate myself for again appearing weak. “I’ve always been told you were a brutal people, but the level of manipulation . . .”

I pause with a new thought. “Bleeding skies, that’s it.”

My gaze bores into Tristan’s now-livid face. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. You want me on death’s doorstep, so you can coerce me into connecting with you again. If I’m desperate to be healed, you’ll get access to my memories.”

Tears flood my eyes. “I promise you it’ll never work.”

Tristan’s nostrils flare. “Samuel.”

There’s a reluctant pause before Samuel responds. “On it.”

The mountain of a man throws me a parting look that I can’t quite read, but it’s distinctly less murderous than it was seconds ago.

Tristan moves in closer.

“No,”

I shout, scuttling back. “Don’t touch me. Don’t even come near me. I’d rather die than let you connect with me again.”

His knuckles press against his lips for a few heartbeats. Then he speaks, voice deep and menacing. “Which is exactly what they want.”

His anger has somehow moved inside me and now echoes off my chest, raging like a spooked bear. He inhales raggedly. “I’m going to fix this.”

I stare after him as he leaves, until my eyes begin to blur. Is he really? Hope sparks that he’s telling the truth. I want him to help me. I want him to be different from every story I’ve been told about the Kingsland.

But I know better. I can’t forget that the fox befriended the bumblebees for the sole purpose of drawing them out. Tristan needs to win me over now that he’s promised to try to connect with me again. “Don’t be so gullible,”

I mutter to myself as I briskly wipe my eyes. If he fixes anything, it’s because he’s trying to manipulate me.

The only person I can count on is myself.

After another unsatisfying attempt to fill my empty belly with water from the tap, I set about placing the tablets of pain reliever in dozens of locations around the room. A single tablet in the bottom of a pillowcase. Another in the back pocket of a pair of wool pants. Someone might notice that I took them, but I only need to prevent them from taking any back. I tuck a small handful in the front pocket of my shirt. I’m going to need them.

Tristan’s journal is still lying on the bed, and knowing now probably isn’t the safest time to read it, I remove the drawer of the bedside table and let it fall into the space below.

There’s a knock on the door. It opens before I can respond, and a short, older woman appears.

I slowly rise from the floor, the drawer still lying beside my feet. “Who are you?”

The woman’s gaze takes in the state of the bedside table but quickly returns to me. Her chin-length dark hair is streaked with gray, and she has a heart-shaped face. Winding around one of her wrists are the faint black lines of a nish, a traditional tattoo often worn by those of indigenous heritage. My attention settles on what’s in her hands. Food.

“Is that for me?”

The woman’s grin looks too bright. “It is.”

She brings the tray as I sit on the bed, then sets it down on my lap. My nose fills with the heavenly scent of toasted bread with a side of rhuberries. There’s a steaming mug of tea at the top of the tray. My stomach rumbles in pain, and I shove a bite of the bread in my mouth.

“I thought I’d start your tummy off light and see how it goes,” she says.

Start sounds promising, but nothing will be guaranteed now that they want something from me.

I fill my mouth with the wild berries and chew quickly, then swallow and move back to the toast. But after only three bites, I’m full and deeply regretful of all the water I drank moments ago. An annoying queasiness returns, hovering like the woman staring at me a few feet away. Reluctantly, I lift my gaze to her. “Tristan sent you?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“He has some work to do with the elite guard.”

Elite guard. Is that what Tristan and that team of soldiers call themselves? My pulse quickens at what they might be doing or planning in regard to the clans.

The woman reaches for the tray now that I’ve stopped eating. I grip the edges tight. “Please don’t take it away.”

She drops her hands. “Of course. I was only going to move it to the table. There’s a mug of fesber tea there. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you there’s also white thistle in it. Be sure to drink it. It’s done wonders for Tristan.”

So my suspicions were right—or at least that part. They did find the antidote, and Tristan has recovered significantly in a matter of days. My eyes water at the first ray of hope that soon I’ll get my body back in working order. I’ll need it to be able to make my escape.

My wary gaze returns to the woman. I see why Tristan chose her; her gentle face and cheerful demeanor are disarming. She’s too happy to be a slave—she must have upper-class connections. “I’m going to need many more cups of this.”

I take another sip of the tea. It’s bitter and disgusting, and I find it hard not to gag. I choke down another swallow.

“I can help with that.”

I eye her. “Are you familiar with plants? I’d like to add honey and a couple of other herbs to speed up my recovery.”

She chuckles. “The honey’s no problem. The plants . . . maybe you can draw me a picture, and I’ll see what I can do.”

She smiles, and I return it. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Enola Apelles. You’ve met my husband—Vador.”

I was right. Upper class. I try to imagine this vibrant flame of a woman in her white denim and jovial disposition with the stoic soldier. It’s intriguing. It also shows her in a new light—Enola’s had access to information from Tristan’s inner circle.

Perhaps two can manipulate.

“I imagine you’ve heard all about me.”

Enola laughs, her eyes crinkling in a way that makes me think she does that a lot. “I’ve heard a bit.”

“Like me asking Vador to talk me through how to connect with Tristan?”

An honest chuckle leaks out of me, and her smile grows bigger too.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed.”

She pulls at the blanket, straightening the corners. “All of this is new; why wouldn’t you ask?”

Hoping she’ll reveal more, I choose my words carefully. “The first time I heard about this magic connection was when I was dying on this bed. I still don’t understand it.”

What is it? Where did it come from?

How do I break it, so I’m not tied to any man but Liam?

“Yes, well . . . as you’ve seen, it takes time to learn to navigate it. It can be overwhelming at first. Did you know that only the sixteen founding families of Kingsland and their lines get to experience it? It’s a real privilege. Many people would sell their souls for the ability to heal, an indispensable protection in this dangerous new world. Then, of course, there’s the closeness it allows between you and your partner, which protects your bond. An intimacy so unique it’s . . . unearthly, wouldn’t you agree?”

Enola’s eyes take on a knowing look.

Heat crawls up my neck. I hate that people know that I’ve experienced this intimacy with Tristan. That I’ve felt his emotions. The innermost part of him. But all I can do is make sure it never happens again.

“Now”—she claps—“shall we get you washed up?”

I lift my head at the topic change. “Um . . .”

The idea of a freezing cold bath is up there with being poisoned again. I gulp a few more swallows of my tea. “I’m not sure I have the energy.”

Her hand cups my elbow, as if preparing to help me stand. “Then we’ll make it quick.”

With Enola’s help, I shuffle into the bathroom. It’s embarrassing how starved for oxygen I am, but she doesn’t comment. She starts running the bathwater, then motions to Tristan’s white shirt that I’m wearing on top of my nightgown, as if asking if she can undo the buttons. I nod, too winded to care.

“You like this type of shirt?”

I shrug. “It’s . . . soft.”

“Ahhh.”

A smirk pulls at her lips as she slips it off my shoulder. She tosses it toward the counter. Pills ping loudly off the cold stone-like floor as they slip out of the pocket. We both go still.

Fates, fates, fates.

“What are these?”

she asks, bending over to pick them up.

My eyes slide closed.

She drops the tablets in a pile beside the shirt.

My chest is so tight there’s no room for air.

“Do you want help with your nightgown?”

Her voice lacks anger or suspicion.

Peeling one lid open, I stare at her. That’s it? She’s not going to take them? Or punish me?

Her kindness hits me with a devastating blow, and my plan to be guarded around her crumbles along with my pride. “How do I escape?”

There’s an unsteadiness to my voice.

Enola presses her lips. Then her shoulders straighten and, in an instant, her softness disappears. “You don’t.”

My skin turns feverish. I misjudged her.

“As I’ve stated, not every couple in Kingsland gets to experience the connection. That’s not a gift you walk away from.”

“We’re not a couple, and I don’t want the connection,”

I say, unable to keep the vehemence out of my voice. “I want to go home.”

Enola bends to shut off the water, then joins her hands serenely in front of her. “As you know, our entire territory is surrounded by an electrified fence that is guarded at all times.”

I didn’t know that.

“You are the only clan member to have entered in decades, which complicates things greatly. Our safety will be compromised if you leave. The soldiers know to stop you if you try.”

My mouth pops open. “How was Farron captured if no clansman has gained access inside?”

Her eyes narrow on me a second before turning somber, and I’m reminded how fresh her grief is. She must have known him well. “Farron was training a skeleton crew of new soldiers the night he was taken. It was a planned event outside the fence. Somehow, your father got wind of it, which, I presume, is why he scheduled the attack for that night.”

I swallow hard, hating that she’s probably right. “What about traders? They get access to come in. They probably know more about your people than I do. How are they not a risk?”

“We have our own traders, but on the rare occasion that we outsource, we will offer food and lodging while we do business. But as a rule, they aren’t allowed beyond the gates. We’ve learned our lesson on that.”

Gates? Is it really possible that the entire Kingsland is fenced off and protected? How have I never heard that before?

And if it’s true, how am I going to escape?

“Do you want to get in the water? It’s getting cold.”

My gaze jerks to her, then to the water. They’ve had hot, running water all along?

Oh, those women must really hate me.

I remove my nightgown and slip into the water, immediately turning into a wilted leaf. Enola offers to wash and comb my hair, and it’s all I can do to nod. Perhaps I should be embarrassed, but I don’t have the strength. When she’s finished, she wraps me in a towel so soft I suggest sleeping in it.

“I have a better idea.”

She disappears for a moment and returns with another of Tristan’s white button-up shirts. “It appears he has a few of these,”

she says, delight dancing in her eyes.

I grow wary as she slips the white fabric over my shoulders and buttons it. “Why are you being nice to me? I mean, I assume Tristan asked you to help me, but . . .”

This woman doesn’t strike me as a bumblebee-stomping fox.

Enola’s lips pull to the side before she speaks. “Tristan’s mother passed away when he was fourteen in an . . . accident. It left his father lost for a long time. It’s been my pleasure to fill in the gaps and love that boy. I’ve cooked and cleaned and”—her fingers brush over my shoulder, flattening a wrinkle in the fabric—“made sure he had clothes. Vador and I never had children, so I think of Tristan as my son.”

Is she saying she got him this shirt?

“I love him.”

She raises her chin, and I see the truth of those words in every inch of her face. “Please don’t break his heart.”

She leaves me alone in the bathroom to choke on her request.

Don’t break his heart? But I don’t have his heart.

I’m his prisoner.