Page 61 of The Enemy's Daughter

“Don’t do anything rash,” she yells at my back as I race down the stairs.

A scream builds in my throat.What? Like stab Tristan between the ribs?

I can’t promise that.

We’re no longer playing by the rules.

20

My breaths are nothing short of desperate by the time I make it to the motor vehicle and furiously untie the leather straps to free Enola’s horse. After heaving myself into the saddle, I take off.

When I reach Tristan’s house, my eyes are dry, and a new plan has taken shape. If the clans were attacked, they’ll need medical aid. So Tristan is going to take me over the border fence himself. Now.

I release Enola’s horse and shove the front door open. “Tristan!” I yell, stomping up the stairs to our bedrooms.

He appears in the hall. I look him over, searching for evidence of his sins and find it on his ripped fighting pants and dirt-stained shirt—blood.

“What have you done?” I whisper. His face tightens as he’s blasted with my anger. My betrayal. My fear. But the second I sense his shame, it nearly drops me to my knees. Any hope that this is a cruel joke dies. “Tell me,” I command, tears warping my voice.

He holds my gaze with eyes the color of the forest he found me in. “I can’t.”

Oh.

He’s drawn a line in the sand. He’s made a choice.

It hurts, but it also makes what I’m about to do a lot easier.

I should have grabbed a knife.

Tristan’s eyes grow wide as I search for a weapon—anything I can use to force him to take me past the fence. But the hall is empty.

“Isadora.” He holds up his hands like he’s corralling a wild animal. I can only imagine what he’s sensing from me.

My eyes catch on the painted picture of a ship at sea, hanging on the wall beside me. It has a dark wood frame. I rip it down and smash it against the floor. There’s no glass to shatter, but long shards of wood break off the edges. I pick one up and fist it in my hand. “You’re going to help me.”

His shoulders go rigid, and I notice his knees bend slightly. His posture is a warning announcing how skilled and trained he is at fighting.

I weigh my odds, then grunt in frustration. What are the chances I can force him, an elite guard, to do anything with nothing but a jagged stick in my hand?

None.

I only have one viable option—the one I’ve been trying to make work since I arrived here.

My fingers release the broken piece of the frame, and it drops to the floor with a clatter.

Tristan’s face falls with relief. “Isadora, it’s restricted infor—”

I take a single step before breaking into a run. Urgency and rage power my muscles as I jump, crashing into him, my arms wrapping around the back of his neck. His hands grip my rib cage, prepared to push me away, but stop when I meet him in a brutal kiss. Slowly,his fingers slip to encircle my waist, caging me in. He’s not ending this, even though the kiss is harsh and ugly, just like the anger coursing through me. Although we’ve never been closer physically, there isn’t a shred of vulnerability on my part, which is probably not helping me to connect with—

We’re falling, plummeting over an endless waterfall that’s higher and more exhilarating than any time before. Euphoria spreads through my veins like a drug, which is maddening. I don’t want to enjoy this. I’m here to pillage his memories, then purge him from my life.

We land in the pillow of each other’s minds. Every emotion I felt from him seconds ago—shame, fear, and frustration—fuses with mine. I have no context for his feelings, but they humanize him. They place me in his shoes.

An ache of an injury on his thigh gains my attention. It calls to me to share it so he can be healed.

Oh fates, no.

I’m so close to accessing his memories, I can feel it, and just like when we healed each other, I know intuitively how to find what I seek. I press against that spot in his mind like it’s a door I need to open, but it accomplishes nothing. There’s something in the way. He’s blocking me.

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