Page 117 of Thorn Season
His coldness thawed a fraction, eyebrows drawing together. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I misjudged a great deal about you.”
I couldn’t allow his words to pierce me; they slid away like blood off steel.
“You have three days left,” I said. “Or else I suggest running back to your ship. Once Erik fixes on a target, he rarely changes course.”
I began turning when Keil’s specter caught my elbow, faint as a shiver on my skin.
The effect was unexpected: My own specter rushed to the front of my body, as if to urge me further into his touch. I jerked, my breath hitching, betraying my discomfort. I leashed my specter resentfully, then recovered with a huff of laughter.
“Really?” I drawled. “Wielding in the ballroom? You’re going to make it that easy for me?”
“Tell them, then. I won’t deny it.” Keil spoke firmly, but not unkindly—a challenge without the bite.
We were tucked into a dimmer corner of the ballroom, but the party thundered behind us, an ocean of bodies and sound. It reminded me of that moment at Budding Ball, when we’d stood between the silks. When he’d untangled my earring with a gentleness that had sent tingles across my skin.
“Don’t test my patience within earshot of so many bystanders,” I murmured, smothering the memory. “It won’t end well.”
Again, I went to turn. Again, his specter flared—with that same gentleness, easy to shrug off if I wanted to. But I held my ground as he stepped closer, my specter twisting painfully toward him. A manifestation of the deep yearning I was trying to pretend didn’t exist.
“You wanted a dare,” Keil said. “So here it is. Call for your king. Have them put me in chains.” One step closer, and he towered over me. My breath caught again at the intensity of his stare. “If you’re such a viper,” he whispered, his specter grazing like fingertips down my arm, “then go ahead, my lady.Strike.”
The tension spilled out and hardened, cementing us in a deadlock. My pulse quickened; his rapid breaths washed across my face. I sensed the bluff between us, but couldn’t tell if it was mine or his.
I didn’t have to find out.
The fanfare sounded, and I shucked off his spectral touch, gratefulfor the excuse to look away. The room dipped with bows and curtsies as Erik sailed from the grand foyer, his cape billowing.
Then the music screeched to a stop. Laughter cut off in gasps and strangles as the crowd froze—some half-bent in their genuflections—a tableau of plumes and open mouths.
Because a group of guards charged behind the king.
They parted the herd on the dance floor, glaring at those who couldn’t scamper fast enough. Then they opened their tight formation and tossed out a trembling figure. The man cried out as his knees hit the marble.
The sound had me tumbling forward before I realized what I was doing.
“Erik,” I breathed, clutching the king’s arm. “Who is this?”
His lashes dipped, eyes sweeping over me. His smile tightened my gut. “Why don’t we ask our guests?” he called loudly. “Can any of our esteemed nobles identify this man?”
Silence crackled, heavy and scented with fear. The man whimpered into his shirt.
“Lady Sabira?” Erik asked. Sabira gave a haughty shake of her head, but I glimpsed her relief as Erik turned to another. “Lord Rupert? Can you identify him for us?”
“N-no, Your Majesty.”
The man began to rock back and forth, arms curled around his knees.
“Erik,” I pleaded.
But Erik ignored me, capturing the hand I’d hooked around his arm and threading our fingers together. I twitched, still unused to his bare skin against mine. Then I risked a glance at Keil, whose eyes were fixed on our twined hands—on Erik’s firm grip versus my own limp, open hold.
Keil’s jaw tightened.
“How about a clue?” Erik said, and I nearly stumbled as he pulled me closer to the man. To everyone else, it probably looked like we were meting out this man’s fate together.
“It’s Quincy, isn’t it?” Erik asked kindly. “I hear you’re a minister.”
The man’s throat worked with a loud swallow. “Y-yes.”
