Page 28 of The Enemy's Daughter

“I told you. The way we did this—not firmly establishing a relationship first—has never been done before.”

It hits me how much this is sounding like the twisted magic Mum said the Kingsland had all along.

Don’t underestimate their sorcery. If they can communicate without words and inflict pain without a weapon, who knows what else they can do?Is sending memories not a form of wordless communication? Did we not inflict pain on each other by sharing our wounds?

This can’t be what Mum imagined their magic to be, but mebeing connected to Tristan may be just as dangerous for the clans and their future. “We need to break thisconnection. It has to stop.”

He stares at me for a second, then rakes a hand through his hair again. “Look, everything is complicated now. Things have been set in motion that may not be undone.”

“Things.” Like this connection? Or is he talking about me never being allowed to leave? “If I don’t go home, my father will come for me.” Or Liam will. “And then many people will die.”

“I look forward to him trying,” he says, voice carrying a looming threat.

“So I’m here as bait?”

Tristan lets out a hard laugh and shakes his head. “If only it were that simple.”

“Then explain it to me.”

My invitation is met with nothing but cold silence. “Oh, I see. The Kingsland doesn’t allow their wives to dabble in politics either. Well, good thing I don’t plan to remain here as your wife. I’m betrothed to someone else.”

Tristan appears at a loss for words. “To who?”

To the man you’re hunting for murdering Farron Banks.

The urge to answer him, to respect him like I would a clansman, is so ingrained in me, I have to bite my lip to keep from speaking.

I feel a slight pressure in my head as Tristan fruitlessly attempts to dig into my mind. He’s not apologetic this time. I turn my head away and ignore it.

He pushes himself out of the chair. “There is no betrothal, Isadora. You’re married now. To me.”

Pain and fatigue battle for my attention. My muscles are filled with thorns, my body covered with sweat. Halfway to the bathroom, I consider lying down as spots dance before my eyes. The poison obviously still thrums through my veins.

I blink. Did they never find any fesber or white thistle?

Then I remember how quickly Tristan stood from his chair. Oh. They’ve found the antidote. They just haven’t shared it with me.

Hot anger fuels my final steps to the bathroom. This is how Tristan plans to make me stay. Not only is he keeping me sick, but it’s no accident that I haven’t been given any food. He wants me weak and immobilized.

That bastard.

Why even save me at all?

Everything makes sense now, and tears fill my eyes at my naivety. Somehow between lying on Tristan’s bed and having his lips on my neck, I let my guard down and swallowed the lie that I wouldn’t be tortured or used as a pawn against Father. I was a fool.

After drinking my fill from the tap, I finger-comb my hair and examine my lips, which haven’t improved from their papery, cracked state. I’m still dehydrated. So despite my stomach threatening to revolt, I force myself to drink some more.

Now for a plan.

I’ll need food for energy. A way to carry water.

Knives. So many knives.

I glance down at the flimsy white gown that stops just before my knees. There’s no way I can flee through the forest in this. I turn to Tristan’s closet and rifle through it, panting like an overheated dog. My knees wobble, threatening to give out. Frustrated, I ripdown handfuls of neatly hung pants and shirts, then wilt to the floor beside them.

The clothes smell like fresh air and traitorous boy. I’ve never smelled anything so delicious in my life. Disgusted, I hold up the first shirt I see. It has the whitest, soft fabric, with as many buttons down the front as peas in a pod.

It’s too much work to take off my nightgown, so I pull the shirt on top, do the buttons, then keel over on the pile of clothes, needing a minute to rest.

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