Page 89 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

“Is that what you tell all the pretty girls?”

“Oh no,” I say. “If that were the case you wouldn’t have made the list.”

“Right.” She looks down at her feet, clenching and unclenching her left hand almost imperceptibly.

“You’re not pretty?—”

“Yes, thank you, Aibek,” she cuts me off, losing her balance. She sinks against the wall and I step toward her again, lifting her.

When she won’t meet my gaze I gently pick up her chin. I’m prepared for her to fight me but there’s not an ounce of pushback. “You’re haunting,” I tell her. “It’s been mere weeks that I’ve known you… And it’s been weeks that you’ve been on my mind. Like a spell.”

There it is, the second of something in her eyes that I long for. A softness, a sheepishness. A look that belongs to her face but not to her spirit.

“Maybe it is a spell,” she says, the corners of her lips lifting. “Maybe I’ve been playing you the whole time, putting myself in the favor of the prince.”

“You wouldn’t have to play me to do that.” I smile back at her. “You’ve already won.”

“Well then Prince, that sounds an awful lot like being your downfall.”

She stands a little steadier on her feet while my own falter.

“You could be any man’s downfall,” I whisper. “I might call it a privilege to be one of them.”

I died for her. She is my downfall.

She leans into me, taking my wrist and moving it away from her chin as if it’s an act of defiance and not what I expected her to do from the beginning. “I’ll add you to my hit list.”

“So long as I’m your last.” Again, her eyebrows shrink down, my wrist still in her hand. She watches me for a while and I’m thoroughly pleased with the image of her stunned. “You’re well worth the wait.”

Her eyebrows rise, her eyes harden, and she smiles. “That’s what they all say.” Then she stumbles toward the door saying “Thanks for the jacket,” as if a jacket is far more than cloth.

Chapter 18

My Conscience Is Stained Red

DESDEMONA

I don’t know what I’m doing.

– DESDEMONA ALTHENIA’S PERSONAL WRITINGS

It’s been a week since I killed last, a week since Prince Lucian saw me for what I don’t want to be. Crying and murderous. Cowardly and manic. The only saving grace I have are my lies. In a way bigger than before.

Because the second he finds out who I am, my killing one of his soldiers will not end well for me.

Many times now I’ve thought back to the dream when Bernice told me I’m just like the Nepenthe. I think he’s right. I think I’m worse.

Wendy says that my shoulder is back in place, but even carrying my bag hurts. She says the wound will be entirely healed soon. I’ve seen the Eunoia heal wounds worse than mine after combat class in minutes with little to no problems.

I’m sure the burns around the wound are from my body trying to cauterize itself, but I don’t know what’s wrong with my hand. Wendy thinks it’s poison, which is good.

I’ve been pretending that I am not injured and do not have a dislocated shoulder just to get through my days. I could come up with a lie to tell, an explanation as to why I’m hurt, but if that body does resurface, the kingdom could easily figure out how long he’s been dead. I don’t want there to be any way of tracing this back to me. Wendy is already too big of a liability.

For some reason, when Calista walks down the hall with Fleur and Eleanora at her side and shoves her body into Aralia’s, I feel I’m about ready to burn her to bits. I realize that I’m facing Calista’s retreating form when Aralia grabs my arm.

“Eyes ahead of you, inferno,” she says, and she takes her hand from my arm fast. I put my eyes ahead of me.

Then I notice the heat flooding into my palms.

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