Page 89 of The Deadliest Candidate

The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and leather, an aroma that usually comforted Fern but now felt suffocating. The silence was almost oppressive; Lautric’s gentle greeting had barely broken it.

“This is Ravi Srivastav’s work,” Fern said.

Lautric nodded. “I’m only looking.”

His composure while being confronted made Fern’s irritation blaze into fury.

“This ishiswork. You have no business looking at it.”

Lautric stood to his full height but made no attempt to step away. He watched her silently, as though deep in thought. Finally, he said, “I’m not planning to steal his work, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Fern’s restraint snapped.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking,” she said, the pyre of her anger sending words pouring out of her mouth like black smoke. “That nepotism only got you as far as Carthane’s doors. And now that you’re here, surrounded by people who haveactuallyearned their way here, you’re left with no option but to do what your family does best: cheat and lie and steal.”

Lautric moved so fast that Fern barely had the time to take a step back before he was in front of her. Her back hit the bookshelf behind her at the same time as Lautric lay both hands down around Fern, trapping her between him and the books.

The exhaustion in his eyes had given way to something dark and restless, almost haunted. He spoke in a breath, his voice raw with emotion—not fury, but something else, something deep and gutting.

“You cannot begin to imagine the cost I have paid for being here, the things I’ve had to do to find my way to this place.”

Fern’s eyes were wide. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a wild beast throwing itself against the bars of its cage. The emotion in Lautric’s voice made the truth of his words undeniable. For a moment, Fern was lost for words, not afraid, but shaken.

“I know exactly what your house is capable of,” she said.

“But you know nothing about whatI’mcapable of.”

Lautric had never lied to her, even when he’d brazenly withheld the truth from her. If she had fallen for his clever manipulation, it was because she hadwantedto. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his secrets, his deception, just as he hadn’t even attempted to appear guiltyor ashamed when she caught him spying on Srivastav’s work.

She couldn’t bear to look into his eyes; she dropped her gaze. It fell inadvertently on his mouth: the shiny pink scar that crossed the petal lips. Below it, she noticed something else: more scars,olderscars, like threads of pale silk, crisscrossing his chin, his neck.

She thought of the hunger with which he’d kissed her mouth and neck, and she shuddered.

“I should never have trusted you,” she said, almost to herself.

He let out a soft laugh, mocking, almost incredulous. “You never have. Not for one moment, nor if your very life depended on it.”

He pulled away abruptly, and Fern almost slumped back against the books behind her. His proximity had cast against her the heat from his body, the same heat which had enveloped her when he’d embraced her as she cried. Now that he stood away, she was suddenly cold, as though she had stepped out of sunlight and into a pit of shadows.

Lautric regarded her for a moment, nothing left in his expression now but a weary melancholy.

“You need not concern yourself with safeguarding Srivastav’s work, Fern. It should be the very least of your worries.”

And with those words, he turned around and left, disappearing into the darkness of Carthane.

Chapter forty-three

The Warning

Long after Lautric wasgone, Fern made her way back to the Mage Tower, her mind still reeling from their confrontation.

There was something about Lautric that forever disarmed her. Perhaps it was his tired eyes, or the way his sweaters were always slightly too large, or the sight of his pretty face marred by bruises. Fern, normally so stoic, had somehow allowed herself to be flustered by the handsome face and artless kisses of a young man.

And now, she’d been reminded that he was, and had always been, a Lautric first and foremost, as treacherous as any other member of his house.

Her initial suspicion of him had been the correct instinct, and she should have never let it slip. She remembered her initial determination to find out the books he’d borrowed from Vittoria, to uncover what he was up to. And now, Vittoria was gone.

She should never have allowed herself to forget it.

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