Page 61 of A Monsoon Rising

“Nonsense!” Elagbi boomed. “He’s sober as a prosperity clam! Big lad. High tolerance.”

“Yes,” Alaric agreed, because that seemed like the most intelligent thing to do.

Talasyn scowled. She looked distinctly put out—and also extremely kissable. Alaric doubted he’d be able to plant one on her and live to tell the tale, so he settled for draping an arm over her shoulders. She didn’t shrink back from his touch, and he was so relieved that he nuzzled at her temple.

“You smell good,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. He could fall asleep like this, on his feet and breathing in the mangoes and the promise jasmines and the warm, gorgeous wife.

“You smell like a distillery,” Talasyn retorted. “Let’s get you to bed. Andyou”—she pointed an accusing finger at Elagbi as she led Alaric away—“you sit there and think about what you’ve done.”

“I shall ruminate on my sins!” Elagbi happily exclaimed, raising his glass to them as they left.

Castle guards and attendants alike were falling over their feet to help the Lachis’ka drag the Night Emperor to the royal chambers, but Talasyn turned them all down. It was late in the evening and she didn’t want to give anyone more work after a long day. Particularly when this was no one’s fault but that of the two men in her life.

Alaric was … well, he was managing to put one foot in front of the other, she’d give him that. He moved as though he was torn between leaning on her and not letting her take all his weight, brows drawn together from the sheer effort. He was a considerate drunk at least—and a quiet one, too. It wasn’t until they were ascending the last flight of stairs that he spoke.

“Tala,” he said, in something between a whisper and a sigh.

“Alaric,” she said dryly.

When he remained silent, she slanted a quizzical glance in his direction, only to find him already peeking down at her. He smiled again—the same lopsided grin that had so taken herby surprise in the Mouth of Night and then in the salon. Bashful and boyish, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her stomach went all … swimmy.

“I merely wished to say your name,” he said.

“Oh gods,” Talasyn muttered. Her husband was asappydrunk.

His silliness was good for one thing, though: it lessened the underlying nervousness that tended to flicker at the back of her mind whenever she was around people in their cups. Her time with the Sardovian regiments and at the Dominion court had taught her that not everyone acted like the orphanage keepers when they overindulged, but it was still difficult for her to let go of past associations, to quell the irrational dread that lurked in the pit of her stomach at the smell of liquor.

One slow eternity later, they were in their room. “Your father,” Alaric gravely pronounced as Talasyn coaxed him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, “is a miscreant.”

“He takes after his son-in-law in that regard,” she countered, kneeling between his legs.

Alaric made a sound not dissimilar to someone choking on his own tongue. It was only then that the suggestiveness of her position dawned on Talasyn.

“As if I would ever,” she said shrilly, making it a point to yank his left boot off his foot so that there could be no mistaking her intentions.

It happened abruptly. Alaric lurched forward with his hand rising up from out of the shadows, the pungent smell of rum wafting from his skin. Talasyn cried out, shrank back, a child again, raising her arms over her head to ward off the blow.

But it never came.

When she dared to peer up at him, he was frozen in place, his hand hovering inches from his other boot. He’d only been about to help her take it off, not …

Her heart rate returned to normal. She felt foolish and small. And hopeless, with the realization that she would never be free of the things she carried.

“Did—were you—” Alaric faltered, each word laboriously plucked out from his stupor. “Did you think that I … would strike you?”

Talasyn remained silent a beat too long. Long enough for him to confirm that her answer, though unspoken, was yes.

“I wouldn’t—” He hit the floor on his knees and shuffled toward her. She straightened up with the intention of nudging him to do so as well, but he flung his arms around her waist. “Tala, I wouldnever”—he buried his face in her midsection—“never when we’re not sparring,” he said fiercely. “Never when I’m drunk, never in our room—”

“I know.” She carded her fingers through his soft hair, in a tentative attempt to soothe him. “Please don’t tell anyone—not even my father is aware of this—but it’s … I can’t help it sometimes. I get tense when people drink. Because the ones in charge—they’d hit me and the other children, back at the orphanage, whenever they were foxed.” He flinched, holding her tighter. “So my mind makes associations. It’s not you. I know you wouldn’t.”

“Never,” Alaric repeated. “Give me their names, I’ll find them, make them pay—”

“It’s likely that they all died the day Kesath attacked Hornbill’s Head.”

He looked up, a motion that caused her hand to slip from his hair to the side of his face. His eyes flashed silver with Shadowgate and fury even as he leaned into the curve of her palm. “Good.”

She should have chastised him for that. She should have called him a monster. So many had died when the stormship came;shehad nearly died. But it was like a siren song, his angeron her behalf. It unleashed her own vindictive streak, it made her think of how everyone who had wronged her then had long rotted away beneath dust and rubble, while she was still standing.

---