Page 74 of The King's Man 3

Very soon, it also ends.

I stare at the board, lost at how slyly Bastion won. He taps his cheek with a smirk. “Never bet against a vespertine.”

I lurch to my feet and blink hard several times.

Bastion hums. “Something you want to say?”

I puff out all my air. “You must be formidable sober.”

The sound of hooves over stone has us looking across the courtyard. Coming towards us is a donkey pulling a wagon, manned by an aklo I’ve never seen.

They come to a stop before us and the aklo jumps down. Over the braying of the donkey, he says, “My master told me to send him here. He’ll collect the wagon tomorrow.” With that he whisks away, and we all peer into the wagon. Quin is lying asleep on heaped straw, one hand tucked behind his hair—recently dyed dark again and layered with many bejewelled braids—the other, clutching something against his waist. The sharp tang of alcohol surrounds him, and Bastion laughs. “Can’t even hold his liquor.”

I climb onto the wagon and check for any sign of foul play. When I’m certain he’s fine, I cover him with my cloak and leave him to sleep.

“You owe me a kiss,” Bastion says, waggling his brows.

Olyn whacks him. “Despicable.”

I grimace and tell him to close his eyes. “No peeking.”

His smile widens, but he does as I ask.

I glance at Olyn, pressing a ‘quiet’ finger to my mouth, and pull gently at loose reins. I position the heavily breathing donkey and hold out a bit of straw.

The donkey’s lips stretch for it, tongue smacking briefly against Bastion’s cheek—

Bastion’s smile drops and his eyes ping open to a sudden braying in his face.

Olyn and I laugh as he lurches away from the animal.

“You wanted a kiss on the cheek,” I say. “You never specified who must give it to you.”

Bastion wags his finger, lips pinched, eyes flashing; a little furious, a lot impressed. He smacks the chess pieces back into their starting positions. “If I win, I want you to give me a proper kiss on the mouth.”

More clearly worded this time.

“Dare you play against me again?”

I swallow. “I’m not your match.”

Quin’s voice rises from the wagon, low and unhurried, and cuts cleanly through ours. “He’s not. But I am.”

Bastion narrows his eyes, but Quin approaches the table with calm confidence. He glances briefly at Bastion’s smirk, and faint amusement deepens the dimple at the corner of his mouth. He sits with a billow of his robe beside me.

Olyn’s eyes ping around the three of us as she seats herself nervously next to Bastion. “Maybe you should—”

He scoffs and stares hard at Quin. “Same stakes. I win,” a finger points at me, “hekisses me.”

Quin straightens the pieces on his side of the board. “Agreed.”

“Quin—”

Quin’s gaze penetrates mine and he presses something into my hand. The cool, hard shape of my golden feather. I squeeze it in surprise.

The donkey and the cart. It all makes sense. “How—”

He leans in, words brushing the shell of my ear. “I keep my promises.”

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