Page 17

I feel him before I see him, and my stomach twists with nerves.

I set my novel down on the bed—the third book I’ve stolen from his shelf, although I can’t say I’ve done more than stare at the words since the funeral. The wait for Tristan to finish up with his guests downstairs has been excruciating. We have much to discuss about his desire to hurt the clans.

Four soft knocks rap against the door.

“Yes?”

I call out.

The door opens slowly until Tristan appears. He toes something on the floor, not looking up. His jacket is missing, and the top button on his shirt is undone. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows.

My treacherous heart flutters all on its own.

What is wrong with me? How can I still be attracted to him after the vengeance he promised today to bring down on the clans?

The side of Tristan’s mouth quirks up. “There’s a ridiculous amount of food down there. You should come have some . . . and drink some fesber tea.”

My gaze drifts over his shoulder as if I can see the source of the low rumble of voices. “Sounds like you’ve still got a full house?”

“It’s mainly the elite guard and friends. But . . . there is someone here I want you to meet.”

I eye him suspiciously. “I’m going to need more information than that.”

“He’s safe. I promise. And trust me, you don’t want to miss out on this food.”

His smile is disarming. So is the excitement sparking off my skin—from Tristan. “That does sound enticing.”

I bite my lip. “Is a woman named Valerie there?”

“No. She won’t be allowed around you ever again.”

So he heard. I wish the edge in his voice wasn’t so satisfying. He’s not my protector. He’s not my anything.

“Come.”

He holds out a hand.

“I’ll just need a minute to . . .”

I gesture at the bathroom.

“Of course.”

Once I close the door, I finger-comb the soft waves in my hair that I gained from the elaborate bun Enola gave me earlier. Briefly, I consider braiding my hair, since it reaches all the way to my navel. But having it down makes me look soft and innocent. And pretty, which may play to my advantage for what I need to do.

The time for protecting my pride is over. If I can, I need to access Tristan’s memories to root out whatever terrible thing he’s planning. But most of all, I need to convince him that offering the clans mercy is a viable option. The only option. My family’s lives are at stake.

My dress from the funeral sits a little askew, but with a few tugs it’s put back into place. The dark circles under my eyes make me look gaunt. Sick. I sigh and give my cheeks a pinch to draw in some color, then open the door.

Tristan is exactly where I left him, leaning against the doorframe. His gaze sweeps over me, touching me like sunshine, and there’s no mistaking how much he likes what he sees.

My breath quickens.

We slowly walk the hallway, the gentle tether between us strengthening at our proximity. A sensation of buoyancy drifts over me, then tingles of anticipation float through my chest. It’s intoxicating. How strange it is to feel the words he’s left unsaid. The intention within them.

He doesn’t think of me as his enemy anymore.

But the same can’t be said for my people. Which is why I must use this window, this conduit between us, as a weapon. Somehow. No one else has access to him like I do.

Tristan gestures for me to take the stairs first. Downstairs, a few people recline on the couches—Samuel, Vador, and one of the women guards, the one with short black hair I’ve heard someone call Sarah. I think she’s the one who threw her knife at my lower back just before I was struck with the poisoned arrow. Perhaps I should be upset at being around her, but mostly I feel a begrudging respect. It’s impressive that she’s good enough to be an elite soldier. She’s smiling as she converses with the men, an arm draped over the couch and a drink clutched in her other hand. Yet another woman not enslaved.

Sick of trying to puzzle out how Kingsland’s evil underbelly works, I decide to simply ask. “Where do you keep your slaves?”

“What?”

Tristan asks, startled.

“You know, slaves. Well, maybe not your slaves. But where are the women who do the grunt labor against their will? I know you have them.”

He looks at me in disbelief. “We don’t have them. Nobody here is a slave.”

Vador gives a polite nod as we pass, but I’m too confused to return it. Not only do I sense that Tristan is being genuine, but I can’t argue that I’ve seen anything contrary. Even now women’s voices carry from all over the house, including the war room.

“You’re walking better,”

Tristan says as we near the empty kitchen.

My gaze drops to my bare feet. Fatigue and pain still linger with every step, especially after falling from the horse, but they don’t demand my attention like before. My breathing isn’t embarrassingly loud either, though it’s far from normal. “Yes, I suppose I am. The tea is working.”

“Sorry to interrupt,”

a man says from behind us, not sounding sorry at all.

“Dr. Henshaw,”

Tristan says.

A doctor? How do they have a doctor? I eye the balding man who I’d guess to be around the same age as my father.

“I need to be headed home since it’s getting late. You said you wanted to speak?”

His voice is familiar.

A spark of Tristan’s excitement fizzes in my veins as he gives me a conspiratorial look. “Yes, I was hoping to introduce Isadora to you. Properly. And ask you for a favor.”

Henshaw shifts his attention to me. “You’re looking better than the day you arrived.”

Though his words are kind, his face is not. His voice suddenly clicks into place. I flash back to the day I thought I was going to die, when Tristan asked him how long I had left.

It’s difficult to say. Minutes. Hours. Maybe a day or two if she’s lucky.

Some doctor he is. He left me to die. “Yes, I am better,”

I say. “It’s amazing what happens when you actually treat the poison.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You were beyond saving. None of our limited, outdated medicines would have helped, which is why Tristan resorted to the connection to save your life. But even if you hadn’t been beyond saving, I’d still have had nothing to offer you. I’m a surgeon. They didn’t cover plant poisoning in my training. Now, if you’d been bleeding to death, that would have been a different story.”

I suppose that makes sense. “Who taught you to be a surgeon?”

Is it like the mentorship programs Vador mentioned at the funeral? I can’t imagine they have an actual academy for physicians.

Irritation flares in his eyes. “I received my training before the bombs.”

“Right.”

I keep forgetting that older people would have had different lives and opportunities only a generation ago.

Henshaw turns back to Tristan. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes,”

Tristan says with a grin. “I was hoping you would allow Isadora to shadow you when you see some of your patients—when she’s feeling better, of course. She’s a healer, and I think she’d be interested in seeing our hospital.”

My eyes go wide at Tristan. “I’m better now.”

I don’t care if I have to drag a chair behind me to sit everywhere he goes. Acquiring any information on how to practice old-world medicine could be life-changing for the clans. “Could we do it tomorrow?”

Henshaw’s gaze turns assessing. “How are you with blood?”

“I’ve seen my share.”

His chin juts out, the remnants of a sneer on his face. “I bet you have.”

He sighs. “I don’t know, Tristan. I’ll need to think on it.”

Then he spins on his heel and leaves.

My face falls as I allow myself a second of sadness at being loathed by every person I meet. It really is exhausting.

Tristan clears his throat. “I’ll speak to him. It’ll happen. He’s not usually so . . . he just needs time to get used to the idea.”

I raise a doubtful eyebrow as we start walking again and enter the kitchen. “Whoa!”

Tristan wasn’t kidding about the food. The counters and table are covered in rows of buns, pies, platters of sandwiches, and large dishes of prepared meals like stews, some of them stacked on top of each other three layers high.

Tristan laughs, and it somehow rebounds deep in my belly. “Yeah. I don’t know what we’re going to do with it all. It’s a lot, so dig in.”

“Where do you even start?”

“These are amazing.”

Tristan grabs a couple of cookies and hands one to me.

Without a thought, I take a bite. My eyes flutter closed as sweet and salty flavors explode in my mouth. Flour is a rare commodity because we have to grow our own grain and mill it by hand. “Wait.”

I lift the cookie to the light, eyeing the white crystals sprinkled on top. “This isn’t made with honey; this is—this is blossom sugar!”

Blossom sugar is more precious than flour. In fact, traders have only brought it to the clans twice in my life.

“Yeah. We had a delivery of four hundred pounds come in last month. If we get lucky, that usually happens once a year.”

I’m stunned speechless.

You can’t fault us for having more resourceful traders. Isn’t that what he said the other day?

Incredible. I want more. “What else do you recommend?”

Tristan thinks for a second, then reaches for a rolled-up bun-like treat. “These are really good.”

As I take it, my fingers accidentally brush his. His heat bleeds into the skin of my thumb and forefinger, even though we’re no longer touching. Tingles race up my arm, weaving through me like a needle sewing cloth. The already-vigilant tether between us crackles to life. Though we may not be connected enough for me to take on his pain or sickness, my awareness of him is through the roof. I try to not be affected by the pleasure of it, the rising heat of the room.

Cursed connection! I can’t decide if it’s pulling us together or simply amplifying our attraction to unbearable levels.

Inhaling, I bite into the bun in my hand, and pray the temptation to touch Tristan again can be quenched with the miracles of cinnabark and blossom sugar. I chew. Swallow.

My gaze flicks to Tristan.

His eyes are closed.

Any doubt that I’m going through this alone goes up in flames.

I spin back to the food. “It’s delicious,”

I force out. “I make something similar with bannock, honey, and cinnabark—when we have the ingredients.”

“I’d like to try that.”

His words are slow. His voice husky.

I busy myself with the magic boiling pot, then open the cupboard above the sink. There’s a large bundle of fesber there. “You found more.”

I brush my fingers over the furry plants.

“I thought you’d like it fresh.”

His whisper-soft voice seems to do something to my legs.

I grip the counter. Exhale excessively. “Tristan.”

That’s it. That’s all I say.

That’s all I know.

“Isadora.”

My name comes out almost as a purr.

Something achingly tender and hopeful caresses my mind. It surrounds me as soft as a cloud and as pure as a mountain spring. Only it’s filled with wonder.

And it’s originating from him.

I turn around, and the energy in the air shifts as our eyes lock and hold. My heartbeat feels too loud. Enola said one of the purposes of the connection was to bring closeness. It protects our bond and holds us together. That must be what’s happening right now.

But it means the door is also open for other things, right?

“Show me a memory,”

I say quietly.

He cocks his head.

I swallow hard. “Why not? Let’s see what the connection can do. Show me a happy memory.”

We’ll start off easy before I try to see his plans for the clans. “Something not about me,”

I clarify, since I’m not sure I could withstand another of his memories of kissing my neck. “How does it work? What do you have to do?”

“I think you mostly just relive the memory, with the intention of sharing. At least that’s what I did last time.”

“Okay.”

I nod. “Go ahead.”

I close my eyes, feeling jittery but excited—until I sense him moving closer. “Wait. Are you going to touch me?”

If he places his hand on me in this state, I doubt I could hide any memory in my head from him.

“Not unless you want me to.”

Really. He’s not going to take advantage of the moment?

“What?”

“I’m just . . . surprised you’re giving me a choice.”

His face falls a little. “Isadora, I know I took your choice away once,”

he says softly. “But unless you get hit with another poisoned arrow, I won’t do it again.”

What is he talking about? Does he think he forced me to marry him?

Because he didn’t. Right or wrong, I chose that for myself.

We stare at each other again, only this time I don’t resist looking at him. The heat from his bare arms radiates off my skin, sending goose bumps racing over my body.

The need to reach out to him is like a pulse beating between us.

Tristan’s gaze drops to my lips.

It lights me on fire.

“Let’s try it without touching.”

It’s a miracle those words come from my lips.

Immediately an image of his father appears before my eyes. It’s too short to fully make sense of it. Farron’s smiling as he approaches Tristan, but it feels like he’s walking up to me.

“You’re here,”

Farron says, then his arms hug me in a hearty embrace.

I inhale sharply as the memory cuts off.

“It worked?”

Tristan asks.

I can’t make my mouth move. I don’t know why seeing Farron be loving to his son is so jarring.

Do tyrants hug their children?

Tristan’s brows pinch. “What’s wrong?”

More questions cake my skin like a layer of mud, but ultimately it doesn’t matter what kind of father Farron was. It doesn’t change the future or what I have to do. I take a step back, needing room to think. I’m getting distracted from the reason I wanted to speak to him. “Tristan, I need to talk to you about what you said at the funeral. Specifically, about the clans.”

A nervous energy fills me, and I’m sure Tristan can feel it too. Nothing like having the future of my people, their very lives, dependent on my ability to get this right.

“You want me to withhold justice.”

His voice is careful, but his doubt and disbelief spill over me—that isn’t something he can do.

“Are you really surprised that I’d be distressed by the killing of my family? That I wouldn’t do everything to advocate for their survival?”

I feel him mentally pulling away, so I take a step forward into his space. “I’m not asking you to . . . Just tell me, what exactly is justice, according to you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Then how about I tell you what it isn’t. Slaughtering innocent women and children will never be justice.”

His gaze jerks to me. “We wouldn’t do that.”

Really? Isn’t that what eradicating the clans means? But instead of asking that, I ask another. “Do you swear?”

“I swear,”

he says without hesitation.

I stare in amazement. There’s no dissonance to his words or conflict echoing in my chest. He’s telling the truth. My relief is so strong, I’m tempted to thank him. Instead, I push for more. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever justice looks like to you, know that you can’t kill the people I love—like my father—without killing a part of me. You know what I’m talking about. You’re already living with that type of pain.”

He looks thoughtful.

Yes. I’m getting somewhere. He’s listening to me.

But then he inches closer as if to speak into my ear. His clean scent drifts over my face, and it might be the most intoxicating fragrance I’ve ever smelled. My eyes close. Then one of his memories begins to play out in my mind. A building is burning by a river. People are screaming. I watch as my father shoots a flaming arrow over a metal fence.

I gasp.

Tristan’s anger rises so sharply it feels like it grabs me by the throat. “And do you understand that while we will not intentionally murder innocent people, your father will?”

I pull back just far enough to see his face.

“Tristan.”

It’s Annette. “Samuel needs you in the war room.”

He doesn’t break our stare to acknowledge her.

“It’s urgent,”

she says. “Something about a water main.”

He finally backs up a step. Then seems to wordlessly ask if I’m okay to be left alone.

I nod, because I actually do need to speak with Annette.

“Well,”

Annette mutters as he leaves the kitchen, “you two are looking cozy.”

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for far too long. “It’s not what you think.”

In her hand is a glass of brown liquid a quarter of the way full. She brings it to her lips and drinks every last drop before letting the pleasant mask on her face fall. “You leave tomorrow,”

she says, lowering her voice.

“Tomorrow?”

Why does it feel like she’s struck me in the face?

“The border guard I know will be ready. Meet me at dusk behind Tristan’s horse barn.”

She pauses, leaning in. “And if you even think about betraying me, I will do everything in my power to make you wish you were dead.”