I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life.
* * *
My eyes widen when Hector leads me up the stairs of the palace. The place is erringly empty except for Hector’s warriors. They stand in pairs near the thick doors.
Unlike the streets of Astarobane, the palace doesn’t bear the scars of war. The Malachite invaders must have never reached the marbled halls.
Hector guides me into a large bathhouse, the kind I have only seen in drawings. The floors, ceilings, and walls are all made of rose-colored marble. A thousand torches glare from their iron brackets. At least, it seems like there are a thousand of them glaring at me.
Hector frees me long enough to slam the door shut and lock it.
Trepidation ripples down my back as I fold my arms. “So…now what? You brought me here, so you wouldn't have to clean up after you murdered me?”
He has the audacity to smirk. “If I were going to murder you, I would have already done so.”
The hem of my surcoat lashes my legs as I back up a step. Then another. “I want to return to my cottage.” Its crumbling walls and sagging roof are safer than the man standing in front of me.
“No.” He folds his arms.
“I don’t want to be here with you. I don’t want to be anywhere with you.”
Scorn flares from his eyes and tone as he speaks. “How unfortunate that I don’t give a damn what you want.”
He steps toward me, and I stumble another step backward. Before I blink, he erases the space between us and grabs my arms. “Stop backing up as if you think I’m going to attack you.”
“Maybe you will.” I lift my chin. “Maybe you will try to take what you didn’t have the stones to take before.”
Don’t do this, Sol.
Don’t challenge him.
“I assure you,” he says, his tone biting. “I will not be bedding you.”
“You’re a coward!” The words leach out of me in a stream I don’t care to contain. “You hid who you were. You didn’t lead your people. Now, you think you can be their chieftain?” I glare at him. “They will never follow you.”
He yanks me so close, the heat of his body soaks through my thin surcoat, but there’s nothing intimate about his touch. Not when anger seethes from his eyes. “You know nothing.”
I lift my chin, refusing to cower, to make myself his victim. “You are Hector, the man who hid from his own people.”
As quickly as he grabbed me, he releases me as if I’m made of smoldering ash. I step back into him, challenging him with all my anger, my resentment, my inability to forgive him for what he did to Malachi.
“Back up, Sol,” Hector growls. “Or I will not be responsible for what I do to you.”
I cringe at his fury—all wrapped up in so few words. Fear drums against my chest as I do as he requested, backing up and giving him distance.
He clenches and unclenches his left hand before finding his voice again. “Remove your surcoat and pants.”
“No.”
He points toward the bath. “Remove them and bathe. I cannot have you looking and smelling like you belong in the sewer while we travel.”
The sewer?
I glance down at my torn and sweat-stained surcoat. It’s true. I do look like I belong in the sewer.
“Where are we going?”
Instead of replying, he grips the belt around my waist and removes it. I slap his hand when he reaches for my surcoat.
