Page 61 of A Tongue so Sweet and Deadly

Apparently, Loche’s stash of liquor had run out, and the sour mood permeated the entire cabin, sighs echoing between the walls whenever anyone was awake.

Lessia kept herself busy by imagining what she’d do when she was free.

She’d never really had any dreams—whatever she’d wished for as a child was long forgotten.

Living on the streets of Vastala had that effect. And she’d lived there for three years.

And once she’d been thrown into King Rioner’s dungeons…

No, she wouldn’t go there.

She could actually be free now.

Live a good life.

Help others who might otherwise walk a path similar to her own.

She knew she wanted to stay in Ellow, at least.

Ardow and Amalise were her family now, and their life here wasn’t bad. Only the constant dark cloud of her blood oath kept her from being truly happy. But in only a few weeks, she might be rid of it, and she could finally leave Vastala and her memories from the time there forever locked in that box inside her.

Steps rang behind her, and she turned her head to find Loche standing behind the couch, the same hardness from this morning lining his eyes.

He gruffly gestured toward the couch, andwhen Lessia nodded, albeit a bit confused, he slumped down on it, slung an arm over his face, and promptly fell asleep.

Listening to his deep breathing, Lessia soon allowed herself to fall back against the couch, careful to keep far away from his legs.

They continued this routine every day until it was finally the last morning and time to return to the castle.

Loche hadn’t spoken a single word to her—or anyone else—since that night after Craven attacked her, and even when she tried to get him talking, he’d ignore her, turning away, his back toward her.

Having no energy to push him, she kept to herself on the floor.

But she couldn’t stop the small ember of gratefulness that sparked in her chest because Craven never approached them and barely spent any time downstairs.

As she packed up the few things she’d brought, carefully slipping her dagger into her waistband, Venko and Craven made their way down.

Lessia nearly winced at their haggard faces, graying skin, and dull eyes, but she knew she couldn’t look much better. Her legs shook as she did a final lap around the room to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

She picked up a lock of her hair and brought it to her nose, which scrunched at the foul smell. She was glad she’d gotten used to breathing through her mouth to avoid inhaling her own or any of the men’s stench.

When the door slammed open and Zaddock called for them all to go out, she could have cried from happiness.

Even seeing Merrick’s sullen face behind him—tilted down, of course, with a tense posture and hands flexing—ignited a small flame of happiness.

Lessia snorted to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Venko glanced at her from where he leaned on a chair, his arm shaking as he tried to remain upright.

Loche’s hoarse voice broke in. “Our reveler is probably just surprised she survived.”

Her smile fell as she snapped her eyes to Loche, and a scowl overtook her face at the sneer that played across his lips.

Even though they hadn’t spoken the past few days, she’d thought they’d made some progress.

But when he swept his gaze over her, mouth drawn tight, there was nothing of the man who had helped clean her wounds.

“I’m more surprised you all did. You don’t look so hot.” Lessia smiled sweetly and stepped around Loche, exiting the cabin into the chilling wind.

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