Tereille tugs at one of my dark curls. “I think not.” His lips curve. “I’d have no time for my swains.”
“Realms, that would be such a shame.” I rub a hand over myface. “Fine. At least if we damage a tree or step on grass, we’ll be spared the cries of reparations.”
“What has the world come to?” Tereille echoes mournfully.
I consider the Commander, choosing my words with care to better avoid the thorns underneath the attempted silent treatment. “Remind me the purpose of today. If we’re gathering intelligence, fine. But we don’t go in hot without a goal.”
His eyes harden into obsidian chips. “That falls under the category of telling me how to do my job.”
“There are worse coping mechanisms. Do you feel like you
can trust your instincts on this?”
“I can trust Darkan.”
Her gaze, muted behind tinted glasses, is keen, but she doesn’t
challenge my curt defensiveness.
“Don’t be an ass, Ard,” Tereille says, perching on the edge of the desk again. He tilts his head and reaches out to tug on Édouard’s pointed ear tip. A sharp tug, followed up with a sensual caress of his fingertips. Darling Ard ignores him. “I’d like to know too. I’m too lovely to die by ambush today.”
Édouard scowls at his mate. “Nothing is ever certain,” is the growled reply. “It could be an ambush, or it could be luck. Can we afford to ignore it? If they’re building an alliance to strike before the Prince resumes command, we won’t need to worry about our weakened supply chains. Faronne will be rubble.”
It’s not that I fault his reasoning—but something feels off—more off than the constant tension of fighting off the sense of being watched, hunted.
Of course I have an active imagination and a well-developed guilt complex, both well deserved. They fill my mind with plenty of scenarios of why the Prince has delayed taking any action.
I suppress a shiver. I could tell my family it feels like he’s coming for me, but. . .I feel that in a different way than they would interpret it. His silence feels personal. Not “you killed my son” personal.
More like “you killed my son and now you’ll pay the debt in blood and living flesh beneath my teeth.”
I need to talk to Ward about my dosages, maybe add something for paranoia and whatever it’s called when you assign personality and motivation to air. What has air ever done to me?
Seems like it wants to do plenty.
Is it paranoia,Darkan murmurs in my mind.Or is it prescience, little harpy. What have I told you about your instincts?
Trust them.
You do listen to me when it counts.
His presence fades.
“And if this is just another offensive,” I continue, “except Baroun is bored so decided to get creative? Or if it’s not about us at all. We’ll have escalated tensionsagainand what have we gained?”
“Tensions. Our Lord dead, your brother taken, Embriel missing. We’re well beyondtensions.”
There’s nothing I can say to refute.
He stands, broad shoulders stiff. “Have you given up on avenging your mother? Ready to consign Lord Danon to rot in his cell?”
“Has Darkan encouraged you to commit harm to self or others?”
“No. He’s a stick that never met a mud pile he didn’t like.” Momentary
amusement fades.“I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I’m the train
with no brakes on a track that’s about to go over a cliff, my family in
