Probably.
Nerves coil in my stomach, but I straighten my back and square my shoulders. If he’s going to kill me, I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg or cower.
His eyes narrow, as if trying to gauge my reaction. I keep my face carefully blank, refusing to let my emotions show.
“You’re not going to beg for your life?” he asks after a while.
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
“No.”
I let out a slow breath, steeling myself for what’s to come. “Then, let’s get on with it. I’d hate to keep you from your busy schedule of kidnapping and murdering innocent people.”
Those gold eyes glint with something that might be amusement or perhaps annoyance. It’s hard to tell with him.
“Why don’t you fear death?” he asks.
“Everyone has to die eventually. Why should I fear the inevitable?”Easy to say when your knees are knocking together so hard they might be heard in the next room.
He steeples his fingers under his chin. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
Probably a bit of both.
Torchlight skims his features as he continues to watch me, his gaze so intense he reminds me of Cenric. My beloved Cenric. Not that he knows he’s my beloved.
“You intrigue me,” the man says. “Not many people would face death with such nonchalance.”
If only he knew the truth.
I force my lips into a smile. “I’m not like most people.”
Grandmother always tells me I’m special. Sometimes I imagine that I am, even though I’m the twin without her other half. The twin who never knew what it was like to play with her sister—the one who was kidnapped when I was still a baby.
Yet, Grandmother still tells me I’m special. Still tells me I’m loved, even though I know she longs to see my twin again.
The dagger presses harder against my throat, and I swallow, feeling it scrape against my skin.
“I thought so,” he says, his tone as unyielding as the blade at my neck. “You may act brave, but you are just as afraid of death as everyone else.”
“Are you afraid of death?” The question leaves my lips before I can think better of it.
Instead of answering me, he digs the dagger in deeper until I’m sure it will draw blood. “Did you overhear anything earlier?”
There’s no point in lying anymore. Not with a blade ready to end my life at the slightest provocation. “Yes.”
As quickly as he placed the dagger against my throat, he lowers it to his thighs. “I see. Well, Everly. You have a choice. Either I can kill you, or you can prove yourself useful to me.”
My mind races as I try to fathom what he could possibly mean by proving myself useful to him. Maybe he needs a gravedigger. Or maybe he needs someone to go around screaming at night, disturbing the peace while everyone is trying to get some much-needed rest.
“How?” I ask after a moment.
“By being my spy.”
His spy?
I’d rather stomp through a pig yard barefoot.
“I’m not a spy.”
