Page 26 of Untempered
“Are you going to tell me,” he began, the words precise and full of anger, “that you were just playing your little game—identify the winner?”
Of course he knew the game. Or had guessed. We’d made no real secret of it. Why should we? And it was the perfect excuse. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“As long as the winner isn’t one of our own,” he continued, dark, low, and slow.
My mind, unencumbered by the weight of my body and fear, flew. I saw every breath he took and the smallest shift of expression, studying them all. “Your Grace,” I began, the words as crisp as his own, “you and I both know Mikus is the best. He’s the best fighterandthe best brawler. If I picked Mikus every year, where would the challenge be? My game isn’t to identify the winner, Your Grace. My game is to identify the person who will fight Mikus.”
His lips were still thin, his eyes narrow, but there was a slight softening in his shoulders, the smallest tilt of his head, that told me I’d made progress.
“Did it occur to you how that would look?”
I sighed. “Not really, Your Grace. Mayhap I spend too little time considering people’s talk.” I stood and went to where a jug and cups had been laid out and poured my father a drink. Spiced juice.
He was silent while I served him, swimming gracefully through the tension in the air. It wasn’t really my grace, though. They weren’t really my limbs. “You spin a good tale,” he said, taking the cup without sampling the contents. “You get that from your mother.” From above, I saw the softness in his shoulders, the line of regret between his brows, and I knew I’d misspoken. “But I have no patience for games, girl.”
And wasn’t it fortunate I wasn’t in my own skin right now? I should’ve stayed seated and compliant. I didn’t look at Isolde, with the makeshift weapon right by her hand. If it came to it, could we take out all three of them?
“Your Grace, I?—”
His hand shot out, but not toward me. Isolde’s hair was in his fist, and a knife was at her throat. She was pulled back and off balance. My feet carried me a step away. The room was gray around the edges, but she was so clear. They were so clear. My father’s level eyes, long, neutral lips, square jaw. Isolde’s curls in his hands. Her jaw tight with pain. Her neck arched, her legs at awkward angles, her hands splayed in the air, poised. The knife was the same gray as Luca’s eyes. He’d used it to carve venison last night. There was no sign of the thick gravy that the meat had swam in, though. Not on the blade, or smeared over Isolde’s throat.
Father’s mouth was moving, but the words came slowly, like rocks thrown into a pond.
“Sullivan.”
I was grabbed. No, no, my clothes were grabbed. It all felt the same. Pressure. Pulling. Flesh and cloth were the same. Neither was me.
“Help my?—”
Ripping. Biting. Cold air against my back. I tried to spin, tried to struggle. My dress had been torn, the bodice pulled down over my arms, tangling me.
“—daughter—”
Before I could move I was shoved forwards, belly over the arm of the couch, face down.
“—understand—”
My skirts went up. The cold was a piece of information that didn’t apply to my own skin. I knew he wouldn’t kill me. I knew Sullivan was the dog with the most control, too.
“—what—”
I lifted, twisted. Hands bit into my hair, forcing my face down into the cushions. Air. There was no air.
“—Raider’s Ban?—”
Heat, pressure. A body behind me. A hand. It bunched and tore the fabric at my hip. No. No, the flesh. That was flesh. At least some of that was my flesh.
“—men—”
I tried to turn my head, tried to breathe. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t draw more than a sliver of air. It was hot. It had come from my own body.
“—do.”
The weight of him was crushing. Endlessly crushing.
And then he was gone. One moment, there. The next, gone. But Isolde’s hands were on me. I’d know those hands anywhere. Anytime. I was levered up. Hair was brushed from my face impatiently.
They’d left. Why couldn’t I remember them leaving? Father would’ve spoken, before he left. I needed to remember what it was he said, so I could avoid it next time. I wouldn’t pour the juice. I’d sit and be compliant.
