Page 53 of The Enemy's Daughter

I swallow hard. “Why not? Let’s see what the connection can do. Show me a happy memory.” We’ll start off easy before I try to see his plans for the clans. “Something not about me,” I clarify, since I’m not sure I could withstand another of his memories of kissing my neck. “How does it work? What do you have to do?”

“Ithinkyou mostly just relive the memory, with the intention of sharing. At least that’s what I did last time.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Go ahead.” I close my eyes, feeling jittery but excited—until I sense him moving closer. “Wait. Are you going to touch me?” If he places his hand on me in this state, I doubt I could hide any memory in my head from him.

“Not unless you want me to.”

Really. He’s not going to take advantage of the moment?

“What?”

“I’m just... surprised you’re giving me a choice.”

His face falls a little. “Isadora, I know I took your choice away once,” he says softly. “But unless you get hit with another poisoned arrow, I won’t do it again.”

What is he talking about? Does he think he forced me to marry him?

Because he didn’t. Right or wrong, I chose that for myself.

We stare at each other again, only this time I don’t resist looking at him. The heat from his bare arms radiates off my skin, sending goose bumps racing over my body.

The need to reach out to him is like a pulse beating between us.

Tristan’s gaze drops to my lips.

It lights me on fire.

“Let’s try it without touching.” It’s a miracle those words come from my lips.

Immediately an image of his father appears before my eyes. It’s too short to fully make sense of it. Farron’s smiling as he approaches Tristan, but it feels like he’s walking up to me.

“You’re here,” Farron says, then his arms hug me in a hearty embrace.

I inhale sharply as the memory cuts off.

“It worked?” Tristan asks.

I can’t make my mouth move. I don’t know why seeing Farron be loving to his son is so jarring.

Do tyrants hug their children?

Tristan’s brows pinch. “What’s wrong?”

More questions cake my skin like a layer of mud, but ultimatelyit doesn’t matter what kind of father Farron was. It doesn’t change the future or what I have to do. I take a step back, needing room to think. I’m getting distracted from the reason I wanted to speak to him. “Tristan, I need to talk to you about what you said at the funeral. Specifically, about the clans.” A nervous energy fills me, and I’m sure Tristan can feel it too. Nothing like having the future of my people, their very lives, dependent on my ability to get this right.

“You want me to withhold justice.” His voice is careful, but his doubt and disbelief spill over me—that isn’t something he can do.

“Are you really surprised that I’d be distressed by the killing of my family? That I wouldn’t do everything to advocate for their survival?”

I feel him mentally pulling away, so I take a step forward into his space. “I’m not asking you to... Just tell me, what exactly is justice, according to you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Then how about I tell you what it isn’t. Slaughtering innocent women and children will never be justice.”

His gaze jerks to me. “We wouldn’t do that.”

Really? Isn’t that what eradicating the clans means? But instead of asking that, I ask another. “Do you swear?”

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