Page 12

There’s only one way to know for sure if the fence is real and impenetrable.

My plan is simple: leave in the middle of the night, while Tristan is sleeping, and find a way through whatever stands in my path.

By some wonder, my bedroom door has been left unlocked, and though I hear Enola tinkering in the kitchen and puttering around the house, I haven’t moved except for a quick but fruitless search of the room Tristan sleeps in. Instead, I’ve spent my time storing up energy by eating, drinking, and sleeping, not even changing out of Tristan’s shirt, so I don’t raise any suspicion.

However, as the day turns to night, thoughts of what Samuel absolutely will do to me if I’m caught is making time pass like a kidney stone. So for the last couple of hours, I’ve distracted myself by reading.

“Is she—?”

I nearly drop the book on old-world leaders at the sound of Tristan’s voice outside my door. He’s back.

“Sleeping, most likely,”

Enola says. “It’s late. Best to let her rest. You should sleep too.”

Tristan exhales heavily. “Not yet. I’m expecting . . . a visitor. And I need to go through Dad’s office. Vador requested a few reports.”

I strain to hear more, but the voices disappear downstairs. My nails dig into my palms. A visitor? Is it another person to babysit me? Stifling a cry of pain, I fight my way out of bed. Though having the antidote and adequate nutrition has helped me, it’s not the miracle I was hoping for, and my skin is feverish and damp by the time I make it down the hallway. At the stairs, I roll up the long sleeves on Tristan’s white shirt as I listen. The front door closes. I’m too late. Enola has left us alone.

I blow out a heavy breath, but then my ear is drawn to the sound of a key unlocking an inside door. Right, Tristan said he needed to work in Farron’s office—a room I didn’t know existed.

Just then, there’s a knock at the front door, and Tristan goes to answer it. I duck down, drawing close to the staircase wall separating us, but I’m keenly aware that the door blocking the access to all of the Kingsland’s secrets has been left wide open.

Don’t do it, I tell myself. If I get caught stealing information, Samuel will make sure I rot in their prison.

But is that what Liam would do? Play it safe? I already know the answer. I think of how he’s risked his life to be the next Saraf, and fought on the front lines even though he’s not a fighter. He’s done everything he can to help our people, and although he’s been scared, he’s done it anyway.

Before I talk myself out of it, I steal across the hallway and slip in through the open door. There’s a light on, shining like the midday sun. Breathless and shaking like my knees might give out, I take the room in.

“Ryland said you wanted to see me?”

says a woman.

I spin toward the voices.

“Yes,”

says Tristan. “And I think you know what this is about.”

What is this about?

No. Focus, Isadora. I shake my head, returning my attention to the papers and large map that covers three of the four walls. A desk and several cabinets line the room.

“Tristan, listen—”

“This morning you said you were here to drop off food, but instead you locked her up? And you never once even fed her or gave her the antidote, all these days? You could have killed her, Annette,”

Tristan says, anger edging his lowered voice.

Annette.

“Oh, please,”

she says. “She was fine.”

“She wasn’t fine. You did the opposite of everything I asked you to. I can’t believe you’d—”

“And I can’t believe you’d marry her,”

Annette spits back, then gasps with a sob.

Once again, I find myself frozen, my brain stuck on the fact that it was Annette who locked me in.

“She’s the daughter of the man who killed your father,”

Annette cries. “How could you marry her?”

That’s a question I’d also like the answer to—at a time when I’m not risking my life. I force myself to read the papers on the wall. There’s a list of meaningless dates, another with a chart of shipments and deliveries. The map is of the entire Federated States of the Republic—something I’ve seen before, but not in nearly so much detail. It’s intriguing . . . and also not what I’m here for. I tear my gaze from it.

“What are you doing with her?”

Annette continues. “Have you thought about the consequences? How disappointed your father would be?”

An arrow of grief that’s not my own lands directly in my heart.

“I think we’re done here,”

Tristan says.

“No, listen to me, Tristan. Please.”

Annette’s voice turns desperate. “I’ve known you all my life. I know that your father’s opinion mattered to you. It’s why you’ve worked so hard with him. Beside him. Leading Kingsland was his dream for you. What better way to honor his legacy than to pick up where he left off? Be the leader your father was.”

“I’m trying.”

Tristan sounds frustrated. Exasperated.

“But you can’t do it with her by your side. There isn’t a person among us who will support you.”

“So you decided to take matters into your own hands by withholding the antidote and starving her in a locked room?”

Tristan’s anger cracks like a whip against my mind, causing my hand to jerk as I pull open a cabinet drawer. Skies, I need to put more distance between us. We wouldn’t be connecting like this if I were up in my room. I pause, seeing the name of the first file: Clan Weapons. Stunned, I grab it, but the next one is just as alarming—Staging Areas. What are these papers?

With no time to read them, I pull pages at random from the two files, then fold them into a palm-size package and shove it up my rolled sleeve.

Exiting the office is a relief, but I still need to get back across the hallway. Carefully, I peek around the corner. Not only is Annette facing my direction, but if she sees me, she won’t hesitate to turn me in.

I watch as she pushes into Tristan’s space. “You know it’s easy to place the blame on me, but what kind of husband doesn’t check on his sick wife regularly?”

She grabs his arm to keep him close. Then her face softens. “It’s okay. The answer is obvious. It’s someone who realizes he’s made a mistake. You’re a good person, Tristan. You did a good deed—you saved her. But now you feel trapped. I’m here to tell you that you aren’t. You don’t love her, and she doesn’t love you. It’s okay to end this marriage. That’s what your father would have wanted too.”

Tristan’s arms fall to his sides, and he leans close to her ear. He speaks, but all I hear is a murmur. Most importantly, he’s also completely blocking me from Annette’s view.

Go, go, go, I tell myself. Pain streaks through my muscles and joints as I sneak back the way I came—but not before catching a glimpse of Annette’s fingers sliding into Tristan’s hair. She leans in.

Are they about to kiss? A sharp queasiness stabs my gut as I make it to the stairs. I stop, needing to rest and . . . I don’t know. A confusion I can’t explain fills my head.

“Isadora?”

Tristan calls.

Panic scrapes the inside of my chest as I try to rush up the stairs.

Footsteps pound behind me, then stop. “Isadora! Wait.”

I slow my steps but don’t turn to him. My body shakes. He doesn’t know where I came from. Already my skin burns with Tristan’s gaze on my back. “I . . .”

Don’t lie. “I heard someone at the door.”

“Please. Stay.”

I don’t know why I listen. Slowly, I twist around, resisting the urge to push the papers deeper into my sleeve.

Tristan’s dressed in the same fighting uniform-like pants and muddy green V-neck shirt that Vador and his soldiers wear. Wavy golden brown hair spills around his face. Like mine, his eyes are still lined in a bruise, but somehow it only makes him look dark and mysterious.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Now that is the truth.

His gaze tracks over me—a reminder I’m wearing only his shirt.

For all his urgency, he seems a little tongue-tied now. A tingly heat brushes against my mind before he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

For what? Getting caught with his lover? Not that I care who he kisses.

The front door slams, and I flinch. “She sounds upset. Should you walk her home?”

“No.”

His voice is firm. He wipes a hand over his face, then gestures in the direction of the war room. “She only lives two houses over.”

That’s convenient. Annette’s tear-stained face the first day I met her makes sense now. They have a history, and she’s obviously in love with him—a man who’s now married to me. I almost feel sorry for her. “Well . . . she’s right, you know.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “This isn’t a real marriage. You don’t have to ruin your future with her because of me.”

It stings to advocate for Annette’s happiness now that I know she was the one who left me to starve, but I’ll do it if it’ll help sway him to let me go. “I’m certainly not—”

“There isn’t anything between me and Annette.”

He climbs a stair, then another.

I choke on a laugh. I may be inexperienced when it comes to men, but I’m not that naive.

His head drops. “Not anymore.”

He continues to move up the stairs, and the closer he gets, the more his emotions and sincerity mist over me. They all resonate with what he’s saying.

It means I’m equally exposed. My foot finds the step behind me. “I don’t care.”

There’s a brief pressure on my mind as his forest-green eyes study my face. Then one corner of his lips curls upward. “Come.”

He holds his hand out. “You should have some fesber tea.”

He’s right. I should. But as his fingers reach for me, I can only stare at them. The ghost of the feel of them comes back to me. The way they wove together with my hands. How his thumb moved over my skin. If I touched him now, would we connect again?

Does he really think I’m stupid enough to try?

“Lead the way,”

I say, then gesture for him to go down the stairs.