Page 33 of The Enemy's Daughter

“I’ll go... after I say one last thing.” Samuel’s furious eyes slide to me. “If you wave a weapon at anyone again, or do anything that threatens our safety—anything—you will be locked up for so long not evenhewill be able to—”

“That’s enough,” Tristan growls.

Reluctantly Samuel shuts his mouth, but his face says everything he didn’t:I’ll be watching you.

“Go, Samuel,” Tristan says. “And send for Henshaw. Maybe he can figure out why she fainted.”

Though Samuel’s threat has deeply rattled me—especially since he isn’t leaving like Tristan told him to—Tristan’s words still register. My eyes narrow on him. What game is he playing? “I fainted because not only have I been poisoned, but you’ve withheld food and medicine from me for days. I’m lucky I could get out of bed at all.”

Tristan goes still. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying I’m onto you. You know you can’t keep me here, so you’ve starved me and kept me sick. You’ve done the equivalent of chaining me to this bed without ever having to lift a finger. But even still you locked the door with that piece of metal.” My voice shakes, and I hate myself for again appearing weak. “I’ve always been told you were a brutal people, but the level of manipulation...”

I pause with a new thought. “Bleeding skies, that’s it.” My gaze bores into Tristan’s now-livid face. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. Youwantme on death’s doorstep, so you can coerce me into connecting with you again. If I’m desperate to be healed, you’ll get access to my memories.” Tears flood my eyes. “I promise you it’ll never work.”

Tristan’s nostrils flare. “Samuel.”

There’s a reluctant pause before Samuel responds. “On it.” The mountain of a man throws me a parting look that I can’t quite read, but it’s distinctly less murderous than it was seconds ago.

Tristan moves in closer.

“No,” I shout, scuttling back. “Don’t touch me. Don’t even come near me. I’d rather die than let you connect with me again.”

His knuckles press against his lips for a few heartbeats. Then he speaks, voice deep and menacing. “Which is exactly what they want.”

His anger has somehow moved inside me and now echoes off my chest, raging like a spooked bear. He inhales raggedly. “I’m going to fix this.”

I stare after him as he leaves, until my eyes begin to blur. Is he really? Hope sparks that he’s telling the truth. Iwanthim to help me. I want him to be different from every story I’ve been told about the Kingsland.

But I know better. I can’t forget that the fox befriended the bumblebees for the sole purpose of drawing them out. Tristan needs to win me over now that he’s promised to try to connect with me again. “Don’t be so gullible,” I mutter to myself as I briskly wipe my eyes.Ifhe fixes anything, it’s because he’s trying to manipulate me.

The only person I can count on is myself.

After another unsatisfying attempt to fill my empty belly with water from the tap, I set about placing the tablets of pain reliever in dozens of locations around the room. A single tablet in the bottom of a pillowcase. Another in the back pocket of a pair of wool pants. Someone might notice that I took them, but I only need to prevent them from taking any back. I tuck a small handful in the frontpocket of my shirt. I’m going to need them.

Tristan’s journal is still lying on the bed, and knowing now probably isn’t the safest time to read it, I remove the drawer of the bedside table and let it fall into the space below.

There’s a knock on the door. It opens before I can respond, and a short, older woman appears.

I slowly rise from the floor, the drawer still lying beside my feet. “Who are you?”

The woman’s gaze takes in the state of the bedside table but quickly returns to me. Her chin-length dark hair is streaked with gray, and she has a heart-shaped face. Winding around one of her wrists are the faint black lines of a nish, a traditional tattoo often worn by those of indigenous heritage. My attention settles on what’s in her hands. Food.

“Is that for me?”

The woman’s grin looks too bright. “It is.”

She brings the tray as I sit on the bed, then sets it down on my lap. My nose fills with the heavenly scent of toasted bread with a side of rhuberries. There’s a steaming mug of tea at the top of the tray. My stomach rumbles in pain, and I shove a bite of the bread in my mouth.

“I thought I’d start your tummy off light and see how it goes,” she says.

Startsounds promising, but nothing will be guaranteed now that they want something from me.

I fill my mouth with the wild berries and chew quickly, then swallow and move back to the toast. But after only three bites, I’m full and deeply regretful of all the water I drank moments ago. An annoying queasiness returns, hovering like the woman staring at mea few feet away. Reluctantly, I lift my gaze to her. “Tristan sent you?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

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