Page 20

My breaths are nothing short of desperate by the time I make it to the motor vehicle and furiously untie the leather straps to free Enola’s horse. After heaving myself into the saddle, I take off.

When I reach Tristan’s house, my eyes are dry, and a new plan has taken shape. If the clans were attacked, they’ll need medical aid. So Tristan is going to take me over the border fence himself. Now.

I release Enola’s horse and shove the front door open. “Tristan!”

I yell, stomping up the stairs to our bedrooms.

He appears in the hall. I look him over, searching for evidence of his sins and find it on his ripped fighting pants and dirt-stained shirt—blood.

“What have you done?”

I whisper. His face tightens as he’s blasted with my anger. My betrayal. My fear. But the second I sense his shame, it nearly drops me to my knees. Any hope that this is a cruel joke dies. “Tell me,”

I command, tears warping my voice.

He holds my gaze with eyes the color of the forest he found me in. “I can’t.”

Oh.

He’s drawn a line in the sand. He’s made a choice.

It hurts, but it also makes what I’m about to do a lot easier.

I should have grabbed a knife.

Tristan’s eyes grow wide as I search for a weapon—anything I can use to force him to take me past the fence. But the hall is empty.

“Isadora.”

He holds up his hands like he’s corralling a wild animal. I can only imagine what he’s sensing from me.

My eyes catch on the painted picture of a ship at sea, hanging on the wall beside me. It has a dark wood frame. I rip it down and smash it against the floor. There’s no glass to shatter, but long shards of wood break off the edges. I pick one up and fist it in my hand. “You’re going to help me.”

His shoulders go rigid, and I notice his knees bend slightly. His posture is a warning announcing how skilled and trained he is at fighting.

I weigh my odds, then grunt in frustration. What are the chances I can force him, an elite guard, to do anything with nothing but a jagged stick in my hand?

None.

I only have one viable option—the one I’ve been trying to make work since I arrived here.

My fingers release the broken piece of the frame, and it drops to the floor with a clatter.

Tristan’s face falls with relief. “Isadora, it’s restricted infor—”

I take a single step before breaking into a run. Urgency and rage power my muscles as I jump, crashing into him, my arms wrapping around the back of his neck. His hands grip my rib cage, prepared to push me away, but stop when I meet him in a brutal kiss. Slowly, his fingers slip to encircle my waist, caging me in. He’s not ending this, even though the kiss is harsh and ugly, just like the anger coursing through me. Although we’ve never been closer physically, there isn’t a shred of vulnerability on my part, which is probably not helping me to connect with—

We’re falling, plummeting over an endless waterfall that’s higher and more exhilarating than any time before. Euphoria spreads through my veins like a drug, which is maddening. I don’t want to enjoy this. I’m here to pillage his memories, then purge him from my life.

We land in the pillow of each other’s minds. Every emotion I felt from him seconds ago—shame, fear, and frustration—fuses with mine. I have no context for his feelings, but they humanize him. They place me in his shoes.

An ache of an injury on his thigh gains my attention. It calls to me to share it so he can be healed.

Oh fates, no.

I’m so close to accessing his memories, I can feel it, and just like when we healed each other, I know intuitively how to find what I seek. I press against that spot in his mind like it’s a door I need to open, but it accomplishes nothing. There’s something in the way. He’s blocking me.

I break our kiss and shove him. His shoulders barely move an inch. “What did you do to them? Where’s my family?”

His arms hold me as I squirm in his grasp. “You’re looking for your family?”

He sounds astonished.

I freeze. Search his eyes. “Of course!”

“Is that what you think I’ve done? You thought I hurt them?”

Where’s that piece of wood? I changed my mind; I need to stab him.

“Isadora, I didn’t touch them. We didn’t touch them.”

A tremble enters my bottom lip. “W-what?”

“I didn’t hurt your family. I swear.”

His words land true—my family’s okay. Relief comes in such a flood I could drown in it. “Then . . . ?”

I can’t speak.

He pulls me tighter against him. “Hey, don’t cry.”

I push back. “But people were hurt. Someone was shot. You were in Hanook!”

He doesn’t disagree. What could—? And then I understand. “You were spying.”

“Observing,”

he corrects reluctantly.

“But something went wrong.”

He looks away.

“I’ve already guessed what happened, so just tell me the rest. Blame it on the”—I flap my hand—“connection if anyone asks.”

A muscle in his neck strains. I feel the war inside him.

“Please.”

I lay my hand on his chest, needing him to feel my desperation. “You say we’re not enemies, but if you want me to trust you, this is how it starts.”

The wall he’s built between us begins to crumble. “We were caught by a soldier as we were leaving. He shot Samuel in the arm, but we were able to get away.”

The fight drains from me, even as questions remain. Where did this happen? Did they hurt the soldier who found them? Do I know him? I meet his eyes. “Prove it. I want to see the memory. I won’t risk being deceived anymore.”

He considers me. Then leans in slowly but stops before our chests touch.

I forget to breathe.

“I’ll show you, but I want to ask you something first. Do you know why the thought of me betraying you hurt so badly? You care about me. I feel it.”

Those last words are nothing but a whisper. Tristan’s fingers move, splaying over my back, and it’s a special kind of torture being aware of his touch and the longing it evokes in him.

My eyes flutter closed.

Of course I care about him. He’s been to the edge of death to save me. Risked his reputation. Married me.

And now my feelings for him are out of control.

I fear that he’s ruined for me the things I used to accept. How am I supposed to go back to a place where my voice doesn’t matter? Where my future isn’t my own?

Our attraction was instant and seismic, something I felt long before we were bonded by the connection. But now I’m so far gone, thoughts of him won’t stop burrowing into my head. I dream about him constantly, and so much of it is about stupid things, like the way he rolls his button-up shirt on his forearms. Or the feel of his lips.

“Yes. I care for you. That’s always been the problem.”

My feelings for him make me weak. They make me think dangerous thoughts and wish for dangerous things.

His forehead falls to rest against mine, and the touch of our skin is every exhilaration I hoped it would be. I feel his relief that I’ve stopped lying to myself, but he’s still confused about what my words mean.

“We’re a malignant fantasy, Tristan. You are Kingsland, and I am clan.”

His mouth pops open with an objection, but I keep going. “But you should kiss me.”

He goes still, then pulls back, needing to see my eyes.

Little lightning bolts of excitement dance inside my chest. “Kiss me and send the memory. I want to see more than flashes of whatever you recall.”

I know I’m crossing the line.

I also know that if I don’t kiss him for real, before I leave tonight, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

His chest rises with a slow breath. His gaze drops to my lips. “I might be a little distracted to do both of those things at once.”

“Just try,”

I whisper, determined. One genuine kiss, that’s all. Then I’ll go home to fulfill my duty.

Tristan’s eyes seem to darken, then they close as I slide my fingers through the back of his hair. We come together in a kiss. Instantly, the connection cracks like a whip through us, and I’m struck with shock waves of heat and possibility and him.

It’s overwhelming. We break apart and my lips feel as if they’ve been burned. Though it’s far from pain that’s coursing through me. I stare at him in wonder.

His chest rises and falls deeply as we lock eyes. “I . . . didn’t get a chance—”

“I know,” I say.

“We should—”

“Yes.”

A maelstrom of heat surrounds us as our mouths collide again. Just like a moment ago, it’s jaw-dropping. All-encompassing. But I’d rather drown in these sensations than make them stop. Tristan’s lips are simultaneously soft and firm. Gentle and ravenous fire. Add to that his emotions—his hope and intoxication—and something feral untethers in me. Our kisses become deeper. Desperate. My bones and joints unhinge as his hands slide up my back. I didn’t know a person could be kissed like this. I arch into him, wishing for it never to end.

Then we’re moving, spinning. Tristan’s back hits a wall. It jars us enough that we separate. I heave for air.

Holy mother-loving fates.

A lock of Tristan’s hair has fallen into his achingly beautiful eyes. He chuckles. “I don’t think we’ll be sending only flashes of memories anymore.”

I blink. “How do you know?”

“Can’t you feel the difference?”

He places a hand over his heart. “Because I can feel you right in here.”

I concentrate on the same spot in me and find that, yes, the connection between us is stronger. If before it was a rope the size of a willow branch drawing us together, now it’s the thickness of a small tree. The pipeline to him has grown, and with it, he’s become more a part of me.

I startle as I’m suddenly Tristan, sneaking out of his bedroom this morning, and then the front door.

“It’s working,”

I whisper in amazement at his memory playing out fully before my eyes.

Tristan smiles. “Looks like we’ve unlocked another perk of the connection.”

That sobers me. We did. We’re falling more and more for each other. But this passion and connection isn’t mine to keep. I pull back an inch, needing space. Room for my grief. The thought of returning to the clans for a marriage of obligation feels devastating now.

I’m not sure I can go through with it.

It’s a selfish thought; duty to my Saraf and the clans needs to come first.

But when have they ever done what’s best for me?

Before I’m ready, another of Tristan’s memories opens up in my mind.

“You find a new seamstress, or did you sew that holster on your own?”

I ask Sam as he secures another knife onto his thigh.

It’s bizarre hearing not only Tristan’s thoughts, but what his voice sounds like in his own head as he speaks.

Samuel smirks. “I might have made it. You jealous? Want me to make you one too?”

The scene jumps.

Vador swings up onto his horse. “Everyone know your positions?”

A chorus of agreement rises from the five of us.

I sweep the perimeter with a quick scan of the trees. “Back at the cubby by one. Be safe, and don’t make anyone have to come after you.”

“You’re one to talk,”

Sam mumbles. Muffled laughter follows.

The memory blinks to daylight. Wherever Tristan is, his view is mostly obscured by long grass. His head moves, angling to see between the green blades. He’s looking at the land down below. Specifically, a log house.

Mine.

Anxiety grips my chest with icy talons. He must have been spying on Father. “What did you find?”

“Nothing. I lay there for hours. The Saraf wasn’t home.”

He shows me a memory of him thinking about his aching back as he lay on the hard ground.

Relief wars with my pounding heart—that’s not so bad. I’m about to ask him to show me what happened next when I pause. That section of the hill he’s hidden in is steep and difficult to get to. So much so, I’ve never been up there. But also, the grass directly where he was lying was gone, like it had been worn away.

“This is your spot,”

I say with amazement.

He stares at me, a debate shining in his eyes. “I’ve been there before.”

There’s more to dig into with that, but I want to see what went wrong today first. “Show me who you encountered.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Once again, I’m Tristan, looking out through his eyes and hearing his thoughts.

The pile of dead and decaying trees is thirty paces away. Twenty-five. Ten. With a final scan of the area, I reach for the knobby branch, and a stack of tied branches go with it—our hidden door.

I blink. It’s dark in the cubby as I count the heads. Wedging past Ryland, I whisper into Vador’s ear, “Samuel not back yet?”

Vador shrugs. “He’s been late before.”

I inhale sharply. Not only is their hideout in Hanook territory, but the entire elite guard has been spying. There’s so much Father and the leaders of the other clans don’t know.

“What’s up, comrades?”

Samuel says, holding wide the door. Light floods the small space for a second.

“You’re late,”

I say. You’re supposed to be here first to stand guard.”

Samuel reaches into his back pocket. “Trust me, it was worth it. I know exactly where their—”

An arrow pierces Sam’s shoulder.

There’s a moment of stillness as Samuel lifts his arm to look at it. Then, chaos breaks out.

“We’re under attack,” I shout.

Light fills our dugout as Ryland tosses branches aside, creating a second exit. Sam rolls for cover. I follow him, my bow already in my hands.

“How many?” I call.

Sam peeks around a tree, then drops his head back in pain. The arrow is still lodged in his arm. “One at ten o’clock, but he’s on the move.”

An arrow lands just inches from my head. With a curse, I drop to the ground and roll, aiming my bow. “I’ll cover us. Get to the horses.”

Who is firing at them? I hold my breath, waiting.

Samuel withdraws, and sensing it, the shooter pops his head out to steal a look.

My world stops spinning.

It’s Liam.

I hesitate, and Ryland fires a shot that barely misses. The clansman finally takes off running. “Let’s roll,”

I say. “It’s only one.”

I jump to my feet and grab Ryland’s arm.

For one seismic second, my face flashes in Tristan’s thoughts before the memory disappears as quickly as it came on. Does that mean he thought about me as he was running? Or am I the reason he hesitated to kill a clansman?

“Sam had me pull the arrow out.”

He gestures to his shirt. “That’s his blood. Well, mostly.”

My body feels unsteady. I’ve never seen Liam look so angry and fierce. That also felt real, like I was the one Liam was trying to kill. Memories are an experience.

“You know him.”

Is he really not aware that Liam is my betrothed? I look away. “Yes, though he’s not from my clan.”

Tristan nods, but I sense his suspicion that I’m holding something back.

I change the subject. “Thank you for showing me.”

His lips tighten. “Regular reconnaissance is an important part of keeping Kingsland safe. Now that you—”

Is he really going to swear me to secrecy when he was the one on our land? “Have you ever considered just leaving the clans alone?”

I ask, cutting him off. “Letting us exist? No stealing our weapons or trespassing on our land. No attacks of any kind—”

“We don’t attack you unprovoked.”

“Bloody skies, not this again.”

“No,”

he says. “Hear me. Really listen. Use the connection to hear the truth.”

He grabs my hand and places it over his heart. His earnestness winds like a cord around my ribs. “We’ve never crossed into clan land to attack your guards or your people,”

he says slowly. “I was going to be the first.”

I wait for that feeling of wrongness. It doesn’t come.

His gaze sears me. “You feel it, don’t you? I’m not lying.”

It takes me long seconds before I can speak. “No. It only means that you believe what you said. Which makes sense when the attacks on us happened under your father, not you.”

He laughs in disbelief. “I was his second-in-command. Fine. You need more proof?”

Images flash in my mind. Tristan races on horseback through a forest as a clansman fires an arrow. I reject the memory immediately.

“You think I can’t show you the same?”

I replay a memory of me sprinting to the edge of my yard. A tortured soldier is dropped at my feet. I call for bandages, sick with horror as I wrap his mutilated hand in the bottom of my shirt to stop the bleeding, but there’s nothing I can do for his missing eyes.

Tristan’s breath catches. “We wouldn’t. That wasn’t us. You know as well as I do that the forest is far from safe.”

Truth.

He tries again, sending more memories. I see men repairing a tall metal fence. Women crying at a funeral.

“Stop,”

I growl and rub my eyes. “We have funerals too. All of this goes both ways.”

Tristan moves in, urgent, but his words come out slow. “No, Isadora. It doesn’t.”

Truth.

“You’re showing me the aftermath of an attack,”

he says. “But you didn’t see who did it. Not with your own eyes. Not like I have.”

I go still as I realize that he’s right. We’ve relied on the survivors to tell us who attacked them, but all of them have come back blind. Is it possible that we’ve been blaming the wrong people?

“Why do you think I’m so angry?”

he asks. “For over thirty years, we’ve practically lived as pacifists, thinking we have to be generous and turn the other cheek. Over and over. This can’t go on any longer. It can’t.”

Then he shows me one more memory. I see Farron and a large portion of the town, with many of them yelling.

“It’s important we exhaust every nonviolent option,”

Farron says calmly over the agitated crowd. “If supplies are what they’re after, we owe it to our fallen and the lives we will save to negotiate a trade. We have excess. We can afford to share.”

Share? Is he saying they’ve tried to trade with us? Tried to help us? “Then why didn’t that happen?” I ask.

“Because the Saraf is convinced we’re the enemy. He doesn’t trust a truce, so he’d much rather attack and take.”

I want to argue, but I see now how Tristan’s accounting of our history carries more weight than mine. He’s an elite guard and Kingsland’s acting mayor. He’s Farron Banks’s son. When Kingsland’s military and politics were discussed at the highest level, he was there. But as a woman in the clans, I wasn’t allowed in the room.

I fall against Tristan’s chest, and his arms surround me.

Is it possible Kingsland is really innocent? The sound of a rushing wind fills my ears.

“I’m sorry, Isadora,”

he whispers. “You needed to know the truth. Your father is the aggressor. It’s always been that way.”