Page 22 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
“You have no idea what I’ve seen,” Rhyan said. “Enough to make your family’s little vorakh-hunting operation the joke that it is.”
“Enough!” I shouted, feeling sick. “This isn’t a ‘who’s the toughest lord’ contest!”
“Apologies,” Rhyan said, his gaze now on me. “I was trained a nobleman, let me find my manners. Your grace, it is truly such a joy to see you again.” He leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious, one eyebrow lifted and the edges of his mouth quirked, almost into a smile. “Do you want me to use your full title?”
“I think we’ve established who I am,” I said dryly. I’d made it clear to all of Urtavia.
A ghost of a smile passed Rhyan’s lips as his green eyes went back to me. “What has it been now since I’ve seen the youngest Batavia…ten years?”
“Three!” I said, my voice higher than I’d meant it to be.
Rhyan scratched his chin, his gaze roving down my body. “But you were a child.”
I glared. “On your first visit! But last time I was nearly sixteen. Why else then did you call me….” I trailed off, my cheeks heating.
“Call you what?” Rhyan asked slyly, one eyebrow lifted again.
“Partner,” I stammered, too embarrassed to call him out and infinitely too aware of Tristan’s gaze on me. “You called me partner.”
“Is that what you heard?” he asked.
My chest heaved. “Isn’t that what you said?” I challenged, my breath hitching.
He gazed intently at me with emerald eyes as though he was reconciling his memory with my current appearance. He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting. Was he remembering me? Remembering the dance? He had to remember unless…had he confused me with someone else?
I bit my lip, staring back at him, my insides at war. I wanted him to sayloveragain, wanted proof he remembered me—remembered our kiss. But I just as desperately needed him to saypartner.
“Partner,” he said with a grin. “Because we were dance partners. That one night.”
“R-Right,” I said. I was back at the summer solstice again. Rhyan’s hand on my hip, his lips brushing against mine, tasting me, moaning into my mouth as the kiss deepened and I’d pulled him closer.
Sitting across from me now, he wore black leather boots to his knees—knees that stretched into far more muscular thighs than I’d recalled. Across his black armor was the usual blade strap, a thicker issue than my Ka’s. It covered his sigil—silver gryphon wings. His green soturion cloak was full of rips and stains, proving he’d been living roughly. His boots, far too hot for a southern summer, were also proof of that—he couldn’t even afford sandals. His golden-brown curls needed a wash and trim, falling over his forehead too long to be soturion regulation. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and chin like he hadn’t shaved in days. Up close, he looked even older, the lines of his face too hard for a man of twenty-two. That and the scar were the main changes. But even with these changes…by the Gods, he was beautiful.
He lifted his uninjured eyebrow. His green eyes were on me with such intensity, the way they’d been that night, I sucked in a breath. My stomach tightened, and warmth spread across my limbs. Hehadcalled me lover.
Liar.
“What happened to your face?” Tristan asked bluntly.
Rhyan blinked, his eyes taking on a grayish hue as he dropped his gaze from me. “That,” he said, “is a long story. You’ll have to tell me the story of one of your scars as well.”
Tristan lifted his eyebrows in curiosity. With both so dramatically raised, I wondered if it was purposeful. Rhyan seemed unable to move his left eyebrow.
“Can you see out of your left eye?” Tristan asked.
Rhyan coughed and moved his gaze to Tristan, then back to me as if proving he had perfect vision. “I can see just fine. The injury is, alas, cosmetic.”
“Alas,” Tristan said, his voice lilting with a northern accent.
I nudged him in the ribs.
“He’s a murderer,” Tristan whispered in my ear, gripping my arm. Rhyan’s eyes narrowed to where Tristan touched me. “He killed his mother, that’s why he’s forsworn.”
My chest heaved as I worried I’d made a grave error—after all, I didn’t actually know Rhyan. We’d just danced together. Once. And kissed. Once. But I was too stubborn to go back on my decision. Worst-case scenario, Tristan was fast with his stave, and four escorts were outside the litter, ready to come to our aid with one call.
“So, you two?” Rhyan asked, glaring pointedly at my hand. “Where’s the ring?”
“We’re not betrothed,” I said.
