Page 61 of Her Cruel Redemption

Her shoulders sagged as she left off fiddling with her knife to run her hands over her face. ‘Her sister was taken by binders and sold to the blood trade. She hasn’t been the same since.’

‘Are you worried about what she’ll do to you if you see her today?’ I found myself asking.

Her brow folded and she looked up at me quizzically. ‘Well, no. She’d never hurt me. I’m just… worried about what she’s become. And I hope she’s alright.’

I nodded absently. Stupid question to ask. Most people’s former lovers weren’t outright villains who’d been broken into jagged pieces by even greater villains like that cretin Lidello. Again, an unwelcome surge of feeling welled up in me at that thought, and I had to swallow it back down. I didn’t need the burden of sympathy or compassion when I sat at that table today.

I stood up and offered Mae a hand. ‘Putting it off won’t help. Let’s go and face them.’

She sighed, taking my hand and letting me pull her to her feet. When we exited the tent, it was to find the rest of our small party breakfasting at a bench erected just for this occasion and attended by a flurry of servants bearing bowls and platters serving the kind of fare we absolutely should not have been lugging along with us if we wanted to make our rendezvous quickly. But King Esario seemed well used to luxury, so I doubted he’d be eager to forgo his morning feast.

The mood at the table was tense, with little conversation beyond whatever quips Vic Gedelli could conjure about the local towns in his attempts to amuse Gwinellyn, who looked pale and drawn. Across from her sat a solemn, mostly silent man called Morozov, one of Esario’s foremost generals, who carried himself like he was made of stone. With Mae as Gwinellyn’s choice and myself as the one person who had to be included no matter what, we made up the six members of the group who would be sitting at the negotiating table.

From this point, we would travel with only a handful of guards, though Morozov had been in communication with people who were scouting the way ahead ever since we’d left Sarmiers, trying to spot any signs of an ambush or some other kind of trap. It didn’t seem like nearly enough security measures to me. There was no way Draven would feel bound to the rules of fair play that dictated no one would strike during a truce like this.

The tension lingered long after we set out, hanging over us like fog as we rode through the rugged countryside. Conversation remained sparse, limited to quiet exchanges about the terrain ahead and the precautions Morozov’s scouts had reported back. The landscape rolled past in muted shades of brown and green, until at last, we crested a hill. Below, nestled in the valley, was the rendezvous point. A grand old farmhouse, built in tan-coloured stone and sprawling out to the banks of a robust stream, with a handful of outbuildings scattered around it. But the garden was overgrown, and the roof needed to be reshingled. Not the location I’d pictured for a meeting that could decide the fate of a war.

My heart lurched when I realised there were already horses tied up outside.

We dismounted to allow the guards time to scout out the scene. I jumped when a hand touched my back, jolting round to realise Mae was standing beside me.

‘Don’t sneak up on me like that!’ I gasped. She had already yanked her hand away, eyes fixed on my clenched fist. It was sparking, I realised. I took a few deep breaths, willing the magic to settle.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked gently.

‘I’m fine. Just uptight. I should have slept more,’ I muttered, turning away from her. My magic had never done that before, leapt into life without my conscious decision to call it forth. It unnerved me a little. But I pushed that aside as the scouts returned and confirmed it was safe to approach.

Our advance went unchallenged, though we were all clearly on edge, with weapons constantly held at the ready and necks craning to scan the surroundings. But the scene remained quiet and still. Through a grubby window, I caught sight of a flicker of movement. And the suspense of it all, the debating, the news of the invasion, the clandestine journey here, was suddenly too much for me. I wanted to march into that room and just get the moment over with, then it couldn’t haunt me anymore. I’d mounted the steps of the porch when a hand caught my arm.

‘Wait,’ Esario said firmly. ‘We need word from Morozov that it’s safe to go in.’

I withdrew my foot from the step, irritated by yet another pause. What did he think it would achieve? We were in too deep now for a final sweep of the farmhouse to do us any good. If this was some kind of set up, then we were already right where they wanted us. Each delay just gave my nerves time to catch up with me. I wanted to barge through that door on a tide of action and bluster, not stand here wringing my hands as I imagined what walking in would be like.Hewas in there. And last time I’d seen him, I’d brought him to his knees. What version of Draven would I encounter today? Would he be the angry, terrifying one who’d chased me, or the one who begged me to stay?

A few moments later, Morozov confirmed we could proceed with a tense nod, but it was too late now. I tried to breathe steadily while adrenaline skipped carelessly through my veins, rattling my knotted muscles.

Vic paused at the top of the step and stared at me. ‘Rhiandra?’

I stiffened my spine. There was no way I was going to let fear claim me now. ‘Coming,’ I said, and strode through the door.

Chapter Thirty

Inside, the farmhouse was clean, likely just for our arrival, with a long central hallway of dark, polished wood panelling. I wondered where the family who owned the house were, whether they’d been forcibly removed prior to our arrival or whether they’d left willingly. Perhaps they’d fled when they’d heard the news of Port Howl’s invasion. Vic was still lingering in the hallway by an open door, but it seemed the others had already gone inside. He gestured with a sweep of his hand, inviting me to go in first. Through the doorway, I caught a glimpse of a long table, people seated in chairs around it. I watched my step as I picked my way over the raised threshold, worn from generations of feet.

Then I looked up, and there he was.

I’d prepared myself for days, had spent hours trying to talk myself into immunity, had imagined this moment over and over again. But that didn’t stop my body’s very physical reaction: my heartbeat quickened into a mad, erratic sprint and I suddenly regretted my choice of clothing, because in skirts I could have hidden my trembling hands.

Draven’s eyes, sharp and shadowed and weighing on me like a physical touch, didn’t flinch away as my gaze met his. He was all flint and steel and hard edges, holding still and tense, expression blank, hands resting in fists on the tabletop. But the muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed, betraying a ripple of something going on beneath that frozen surface. And in that single, vulnerable movement, I was suddenly back in time and space, pressing my panting mouth into that throat, his body around me, in me, in a dark room with windows foggy from the heat of our bodies, our breath. A thousand words spoken in his voice tumbled through my head as heat flushed my skin, and I imagined his marks were suddenly visible all over me, that everyone in the room was turning to see that he’d touched me, kissed me, there, there,there.

The moment stretched. Everything in me itched to look away, to hide my face, even to make an excuse to leave the room.

But then he’d win, and I wouldn’t let that happen. Not anymore.

Our history unfurled between us, filling the room, growing bloated and grotesque on the tension of our locked eyes.

Someone cleared their throat.

Draven’s gaze flicked to the throat-clearer and I broke free, suddenly mobile again. I had won. I felt ridiculously satisfied in that, and I had to swiftly rearrange my face to hide it.

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