Page 68 of The Enemy's Daughter

In every instance, I feel the lurch of excitement in Tristan’s stomach at seeing me again.

“I could tell you were a hard worker. And caring. From the outside looking in, there wasn’t much I didn’t like about you—except for your father.”

The puzzle pieces finally fit together. It never made sense why his decision to save me—to marry me—had been so sudden and irrevocable. Why his feelings were impossibly deep after we’d only known each other for days.

I shake my head. “I never would have guessed any of this when I found you in the forest. In fact, I was pretty certain you would have happily stabbed me in the heart if given the chance.”

His eyes slide closed, and pain tightens his lips. “That day started seventeen hours earlier when a clansman killed a new soldier—Macfally—along the southern border of the fence during a drill. They hung his dead body upside down from a tree and waited until my father discovered him. It was a trap.”

I’m speechless at the savagery. The barbarity. Who besides Gerald would have done something like that? The problem with that logic: it wasn’t Gerald who killed Farron Banks.

“Once they struck my father down, they took him and ran. I knew it was likely that he was dead. But I needed to see for myself. And dead or alive, I was going to burn Hanook and all the other clans to the ground.”

His anger and grief sting like coarse salt, chafing against my heart. “That’s when I found you,” I say. Me, the daughter of the man he was about to kill. His fury makes so much sense, despite any warm feelings he might have had for me.

“No,” he says. “Something else happened first. I was attacked.” I stiffen, but he continues. “A clansman shot an arrow, and my horse took it in the rump. She reared up, tossing me to the ground, and ran off. Before I could get my bearings, he had a knife at my throat.”

A snapshot of his memory flashes in my mind.

“Don’t look at that,” he rushes to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to send that to you.”

It’s too late. I see it, and then recognize the face. The man Tristan fought is the Maska clansman I found dead in the forest.

“It’s okay. So you had to fight?”

Tristan nods. “He almost had me. But I drew the knife from his leg and...”

Slashed his stomach.

“We were around the same age. In another life, maybe we would have been friends.” He swallows hard, emotion choking his voice. “I walked away from his body, this life I was forced to take, consumed with hate for the Saraf and all he stood for.” His eyes meet mine. “How’s that for honesty?”

His hatred for my father pulses through me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I hated my father too.

“There was no question that the Saraf was going to die by my hands. I ran back the way I’d come, chasing after my horse, but Blue was gone. So I dumped my pack and heavy armor to lighten the load and took off on foot.” He lets out a hollow laugh. “Then, I met you.”

Being connected like this means I not only feel the emotion that drove him to this place, but I’m also halfway to wanting to attack my father myself—a confusing position for a daughter to find herself in.

“I won’t lie. It occurred to me that I had an opportunity to take from the Saraf someoneheloved, just as he’d done to me. I could make him feelthispain.” He thumps a fist where his heart is, and it’s as if it goes straight through my sternum. “But I couldn’t. Because... I also...”

What?Cared for me?

I stare at him, incredulous. He didn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. I feel his intent inside me, and its roots are anything but shallow.

Burning stars, that’s why he didn’t fight me in the forest. He’s cared for me since before I even knew his name. The more his true intentions settle over me, the more my heart pivots toward him.

Tristan breaks our stare with a shake of his head. “I didn’t want to hurt you, that’s all I knew. Well, that and I realized if we talked,my resolve would soften and you’d probably change my mind about what I needed to do. But staying angry after finally getting to meet you was like holding my breath, and after hours of it, I just wanted to breathe.”

He bites his lip. “You were so smart and unpredictable and... very good with a knife. But there was still the issue of my father.”

I understand. My arms wrap around his neck, drawing our faces together. I need him to look me in the eyes. “Tristan, I’m so sorry for what my father has done.” The words rise from the depths of me, a secret place, and flow into the cracks of his broken heart like healing balm. Maybe it’s the connection, or maybe it’s just the power of a heartfelt confession, but it feels like something is set right between us.

“You’re not your father,” he says. “It just took you nearly dying in my arms to remind me of that.”

Dying in my arms.

My eyes slide closed as Farron’s final moments flash in my head. I pull back, but Tristan follows me, leaning. “What?”

I can’t look at him. “Tristan, there’s something I need you to see.”

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