Page 12 of Waves (Tangled Crowns #6)

Raj

I clasped forearms with a shark shifter whose forehead was a mesh of wrinkles.

The old man wasn’t a threat on his own these days.

Age had whittled his muscles. But power has a way of radiating, creating an aura around a man.

As soon as I’d seen him in the marketplace, I’d known he was the head of the rebels in this place, the one person I’d needed to speak to.

There was darkness in his eyes. The dead sort of weary expression that men get after they’ve squashed the whining voice of their own morality. Once they’ve realized that in order to do big things, you had to do bad things.

Such men operated on a different level than others.

Casually, I’d made my way across the market full of stalls and tables.

My eyes had roamed the crowd, ignoring men hawking their carving services to families looking to expand their mountain or glacier homes, ignoring the children gutting fresh fish, ignoring weavers and bakers.

I’d avoided looking at anyone who yelled or sought attention. That’s when I’d noticed him.

Whittling at a bit of driftwood, his shark fin protruding from his back, his posture had shouted he was casual. But the sweep of his eyes whenever he looked up was anything but.

His look was mercenary.

Drifting closer to the booth he sat near, I’d pretended to be interested in some of the stone pottery his granddaughter had been selling.

But I’d let him see the sand dollars I’d slipped into the pot before setting it back down.

Before meeting his eyes with an expression he’d recognized and then heading around the corner toward the closest bridge.

My feet had made an odd clinking sound with each step across the glass pebbles. When his steps had joined mine, I hadn’t been able to hold in my smug grin.

I couldn’t hold it in even as he agreed to each of my terms, his expression serious as he loomed over me.

“You understand, it has to be during the event,” I repeated my point, wanting to be certain this man understood. The world was full of far too many fools.

The shark shifter gave a low chuckle, one that was insulted more than amused.

“Think I started stroking my dick yesterday?” His lips curled into a sneer.

“I know how to—” I cut off whatever irritating point he wanted to make about his own competence.

It didn’t matter. The bodies he was providing were merely a distraction, though I hadn’t told him that.

No one wanted to be a sideshow. Everyone wanted to believe their life was a main event.

With a jerk of my head to the side, I said, “Two bridges to your right. There will be a pile of debris that looks like trash. Under it is a pile of sand dollars for your trouble.”

“It’s a lot of trouble.”

“It’s a lot of sand dollars.”

After an appraising look that would have earned him a death being boiled alive in Cheryn, the old man nodded. “Hope you know what you’re doing, kid,” he muttered, before he swam off.

Tempted as I was, I didn’t watch him go.

My ring spun on my finger as I thought of all the ways to wish woe upon him for his arrogance.

But I didn’t. Instead, I spun my ring and, in a move befitting a peasant more than a king, I said, “I wish there was a pile of debris with four thousand sand dollars beneath it on the Mackerel Bridge.”

Making my own wishes. Pathetic.

But I wasn’t Raj the conqueror here.

No.

Here I was a spy. Infiltrator. A serpent.

It was a new sort of power for me. It didn’t hold the weight of death with a flick of the wrist. But the game of stealth was a little bit intoxicating.

No one had a clue I was here.

My sense of giddiness peaked as I strolled up the bridge, passing women with colorful sea anemones tucked into their hair and nodding respectfully at them. Trying to portray calm when I was anything but.

My tongue danced over my teeth, the only bit of frantic movement I allowed myself as I forced my legs to drag as if through mud. Slow. Steady. As if I was interested in the fissure forming in the glacier overhead and the men that rushed to repair it.

Soon.

This will all be over soon.

A strange pang of regret hit me at the realization that my game was almost up. That pretending would come to an end and predictability would take over.

But it had to be that way.

Had to.

That stupid rebounding wish would soften me otherwise.

I could already feel my heart aching.

The steady thrum inside my ribs missed the sight of her. Longed to make her smile. To drag my palm over her jawline and then fit my fingers around her throat.

I held that vision inside my mind for a moment. The golden-haired queen held within my grip. Her pulse was flying under my fingertips.

She might just let me—let Stavros—get that close to her. And it would be so easy to squeeze…

My imaginary fingers wouldn’t snap her neck.

My mind refused to picture it.

What the hell?

I stopped walking, ignoring the villagers around me as my eyes closed and I concentrated.

Muscles tensed, my own fist digging painfully into my thigh, my chest throbbed as I forced my fingers to clench.

Tighter. Tighter. I finally managed to picture how her hands would come up to claw at my forearm.

That alone was nearly too much. Nausea invaded my stomach and a panicked little sensation inside squealed.

Ignoring it, I took a deep breath and forced my mind to continue until I imagined it perfectly: the flatness in Avia’s lifeless eyes, the color drained from her cheeks, the limp way she'd float off when I released her, drifting toward the surface.

“Stavros!” A voice dragged me out of my thoughts, and I opened my eyes to realize that I was standing hunched on the side of the walkway, head curved down. I’d started to pant at some point and my chest was heaving. Straightening, I turned my head.

Valdez strode toward me, a wide grin across his face. “Had a little too much bubble, huh?” he smirked as he smacked me roughly on the back.

The urge to smash his nose until his nasal bone pierced his skull wasn’t easy to quash.

But I did it as I rubbed at my breastbone, trying to soothe the bruised feeling there while I slid into a smooth stroll beside him.

“Yeah, suppose so,” I allowed humiliation to leak from my tone as if I was ashamed to have drunk too much.

Inside, however, all I felt was relief. The stupidity of wish-addled pain was nothing in comparison to the massive comfort of violence.

For a second, I’d been worried my murderous instincts had been overcome.

But it was just a blip.

Just a blot on the parchment.

One singular moment of weakness.

Nothing more.