Page 43 of Return of the Vengeful Quee

Tal’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in my father.”

“I don’t put much faith in any royal from Montevallo,” she said crisply, ignoring the flash of hurt in his eyes.

If he hurt, it was only a small fraction of the pain he’d given her. She expected him to argue the point, to try to get her to see his actions in a better light, but all he said was, “I don’t either. However, I’m not sure an attack against the Rakuuna will be successful. I’ve observed them for weeks, and other than the illness in the sick bay, I haven’t seen signs of any physical weakness we could take advantage of.”

An idea formed as she looked out the window to avoid his gaze. An idea daring enough that even Holland would approve. Maybe she could still make a few moves in her deadly game against the Rakuuna queen. Maybe she didn’t have to spend her days willing the despair away as her fate closed in on her.

And maybe she could still keep the promises she’d made to her people by using the traitor who’d broken her heart.

As the sound of footsteps in the corridor drifted past the closed door, she said softly, “I learned something, too.” Pulling the small satchel of moriarthy dust from her belt, she dangled it in front of him. “And I’ve got a plan.”

Sixteen

“I LIKE THIS plan,” Holland announced as he hefted his sword and moved into the third rathma position. “It involves food, courage, and the deaths of my enemies—three of my favorite things.”

Tal grinned as he nodded his approval of Holland’s form and signaled him to move to the fourth rathma.

Holland matched the grin with one of his own and then scowled. “Stop trying to make me like you. You still have a disemboweling in your future.”

“Elbow raised even with your shoulder. Chin down. Not sideways, down.” Tal moved around Holland, scrutinizing him carefully. “If you can’t even do four of the rathmas, how are you going to successfully disembowel anyone?”

“Care for a demonstration?” Holland straightened, his sword pointed at Tal’s midsection.

“Can we get back to the plan?” Charis asked from her perch at the edge of her bed. She’d spent three days recovering from her injuries, and while she still hadn’t slept much and had swallowed only a few bites before pushing the disgusting slop the Rakuuna called food around on her plate to make it look like she’d eaten more than she had, at least the room had stopped spinning, and her head ached less and less.

“Of course,” Tal said promptly, while Holland once again tried to master the flow from the third to the fourth position. “Chin down. Like you’re trying to touch your chest, except stop before you get there. And swivel your hips. Not like that, are you trying to break a bone? Like you’re dancing.”

“I hate dancing.”

“It shows.” Tal raised a brow in Charis’s direction as though inviting her to see what a struggle it was to teach Holland, but she looked away.

Tal wouldn’t get banter or playfulness from her. She was using him to save her kingdom. When his usefulness ended, so would her interaction with him.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind wondered if Alaric felt the same way about his son and that was why Tal was still a prisoner of the Rakuuna, two months after they’d demanded his ransom.

Once upon a time, that thought would’ve softened her with compassion, but everything soft within her had been whittled down to the bone.

Holland tripped over his feet and sprawled onto the cabin floor, nearly sending his sword into Tal’s shin.

“Charis, do you want to run through the plan again while I show him what it’s supposed to look like?” Tal asked, reaching down to help Holland to his feet.

“As long as you both pay attention to what I’m saying. These lengthy sparring sessions are getting ridiculous.”

Especially because it meant listening to Tal’s voice, and the way he accommodated the needs of the person he was speaking to. And it also meant watching him flex his muscles and demonstrate the lithe, graceful strength of his body . . . which meant remembering how it felt to be held by him, cared for by him.

Kissed by him.

Tal hefted his sword and flowed smoothly into the seven rathmas, his body moving as if there was music playing in his head. His broad shoulders strained against his tunic as the sword cut a graceful arc through the air, and then he dipped low, his leg sweeping out.

Had he been practicing like this his entire time aboard the ship? No wonder he’d been able to pick her up as if she weighed nothing. No wonder the calluses on his fingertips still felt rough against her skin as he checked her for injuries.

“Are you feverish?” Holland demanded.

Blinking, Charis tore her gaze away from Tal to find Holland looming over her, staring intently at her face. Instantly, Tal dropped his sword and rushed toward her.

She threw her hands into the air. “I’m fine. Stop hovering.”

Tal’s eyes were filled with concern. “You look flushed. Holland, feel her cheek.”

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