Page 49 of A Dagger of Ice and Intrigue
“You.”
The heavy word hung between us as the bloody Blood BrotherhoodCommanderstepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He didn’t bother to spare a glance my way.
Like I wasn’t the feared Huntress standing in the same room with him, with blood on what was left of my dress and murder in my eyes.
As if he didn’t consider me a threat.
I was already disoriented and barefoot, I didn’t need the slight.
He moved like a man at ease, in control of himself and everything–perhaps everyone–around him.
The air crackled as the Commander took his sweet time to lean his back against the door. The leather of his armor creaked as he crossed his hands in front of his chest.
Without his gaze pinning me to the spot, my eyes travelled down his large, sinewy frame undeterred.
It felt clandestine. Like I knew I shouldn’t and still did it.
Ridiculous.
I was just sizing my opponent up. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing I’d admit.
He looked like a man legends had been written about–whether as the hero or the villain, I couldn’t tell.
Tall and broad, he was a warrior honed in too many battles to count. Scars peeked above the edge of his collar, as if trying to remind me he’d faced bigger and meaner and had come out victorious.
The leather of his armor was tarnished halfway down his knees along with his heavy boots, like they had been corroded.
A leather baldric was slung over his shoulder and a dagger girdle hung low on his hips, but they were both devoid of weapons.
I narrowed my gaze. He’d been fully armed back in the maze.
What was this, some twisted show of truce, to give me a false sense of comfort? Or proving he was so unbothered by my presence that he didn’t need to protect himself–
The maze.
The blood.
The olive tree.
The dread which had been slowly burning underneath the haze that still caged my thoughts seared straight through.
“Where’s my father?” I asked, hating the way my voice broke in this great big room.
It made me feel even smaller.
Please, please, please, I begged, as if praying to the gods to reforge the grim reality I’d already witnessed.
As if I hadn’t been the one to desperately cradle my father’s body to me, whimpering and out of my mind, trying to save him after his last breath had already left his body.
“You already know,” he said.
My heart cracked for the second time.
My father’s blood was on my dress.
My knees wobbled, begging me to collapse on this strange floor, in this strange place, and let someone–anyone else–be strong for once.
