Page 74 of The Enemy's Daughter

Tristan flinches.

“What just happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Tristan,” Vador calls. He’s inside the house. Our time alone together is over.

Tristan sits up but still looks bewildered. “I felt that. I literally felt you kiss your fingers.”

My hand goes to my mouth, but this time in shock.No way.Vador walks through the back door. “There you are,” he says to Tristan.

Tristan turns his head but can’t pull his gaze from me. His face never loses its smile. He’s extremely happy about this new discovery.

And although I don’t understand it, so am I.

After a quick bath, I choose to wear some of the more attractive clothing Enola brought over—an airy shirt with a short, light-as-a-feather skirt. Why not? There doesn’t appear to be a need for functional denim if I’m just going to see Enola. Taking extra care to comb my long hair in the mirror, I notice my cheeks have a soft blush to them. My color is returning. Or is it because of a certain boy? My thoughts flash back to yesterday—to murderously jumping him, then begging him for a kiss. The color on my face deepens. I hardly recognize myself anymore.

But I like it.

Not for the first time, a man shouts above the rumble of voices coming from downstairs. What is going on at this meeting? I step closer to the noise but stop, hesitant to spy on them as it might break the tenuous trust Tristan and I have started to build.

But as I slip out of my room and make my way down the stairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by a male voice cursing. The commotion grows louder as I pick up speed. Is it a fight? An intruder?

Someone from my clan?

“How can you be like a ghost, slipping through enemy territory, but then come home and can’t even carry a plate of food?” Samuel’s booming voice asks with a laugh.

“It’s fine, Ryland,” Tristan says. “Leave the mess for now. Let’s just get on with the vote.”

My eyes slide closed with relief.

“I don’t think our discussions have changed anything,” says Vador.

What are they voting on? And why does Tristan sound frustrated? At the thought of his name, a stirring begins in my chest. A pulling. An unquenchable desire to be closer to him, and eventhough I don’t obey it, the connection casts a line between us. Tristan’s emotions—mostly his surprise—suddenly envelop me. That means...

Not again.

He knows I’m here now, listening. I sense his frustration, but after a few seconds of wading through it, I’m not sure it’s directed at me. Something else enters the mix—amusement.

“All for it, raise your hand,” Vador says.

The room collectively groans. “A deadlock again.”

I turn to leave, but as I do, Tristan sends me a sliver of his memory of Ryland tripping and sending a plate of food crashing into the wall.

I smile, thankful he guessed the reason for my curiosity.

Another image arrives. It’s of Tristan rubbing his forehead, bored out of his mind. At the last second, he wishes he were with me. Ryland’s holding his plate across from him, so it must be a memory from before he dropped it.

I wish I was with him too. In response, I send him the memory of me standing in front of the mirror, admiring the glow on my face—and reflecting on the cause of it. It takes effort to recall the details since they weren’t as burned into my mind as some of the other memories I’ve sent.

The men and a couple of women continue to argue. “No,” Samuel says. “Our water treatment system nearly choked on the spring runoff this year, and if we don’t secure another trader or two for spare parts and a purifier, a boil-water advisory is going to be the least of our worries.”

Isn’t Tristan’s team supposed to be focused on security? Or his upcoming election to be mayor? Why are they talking about water treatment?

As the question unfurls in my mind, a new one stops me in my tracks. Could I not think what I want to ask or say to Tristan, then send him the memory of that? We could communicate this way.

Before I get a chance to try, Tristan shows me a vivid recollection of his mouth on mine this morning. Our bodies are touching. My fingers tug on his hair—I don’t even remember doing that.

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