Library

Chapter 33

With wet, straggly hair hanging heavily down my back, I slam another door closed and stalk the lofty corridor, wearing tender bruises on my hips and elbows like the war wounds they are. I thrashed myself against the edge of The Bowl for hours, earning nothing but a few scathing remarks from Elder Creed that planted bitter seeds in my chest.

I shake my head, teeth gritted as I round a corner, walking into a pretty maid carrying a stack of folded towels that tumble to the polished, blue-stone floor with a soft whump.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry, Mistress.” She bobs a curtsey, cheeks pinked as she bends to gather them up with hurried hands. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“No, it’s fine. It was my fault.” I fold a towel, stacking it on top of her re-forming pile. “You don’t know where I might find the library, do you?”

I can’t sneak to the city during the daytime to hunt for Madame Strings, but I refuse to sit idle. I need to find a book that can tell me something—anything—about myself.

Preferably in a language I understand.

She shakes her head, dashing tawny hair off her face as she looks at me. “I’m new, Mistress. I haven’t come across one …”

Damn.

“Thank you, anyway.”

Another tight curtsey, and she continues on her way.

Bag tucked close to my side, I open a gold-brushed door to another bright, breezy, spotless guest bedroom, disappointment dropping into my belly like a stone. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, charging toward a door on the opposite side of the hallway and opening it, slamming it shut when I see a perfectly made bed. “I just want a damn library.”

Turning a corner, my gaze grabs a much larger door on the right, cast ajar, bracketed by blazing wall sconces. My heart lurches, a tug in my chest luring me forward, and I check over my shoulder before placing my hand on the door and pushing it open further.

More sconces give flickering, golden life to a flight of stairs that digs downward, and I cradle the spark in my chest that ignites whenever I’ve stumbled upon something interesting.

The hem of my skirt hampers my descent, and I curse the ridiculous thing. Hoisting it to mid-calf, I hasten my pace, and follow the spiral, spitting out in a long, narrow, dusty corridor sparsely lit by a sprinkle of wall torches—so different from the rest of the palace. Even the ground is different, the stone aged and scuffed and chipped in places.

My eyes widen, stare panning right, hungering over the countless tapestries lining the walls, leaving only slivers of stone between the vibrant masterpieces.

Excitement bubbles in my chest.

There are big ones, small ones. Some that make me want to tilt my head to fully grasp their concept, while others look so real, I want to dive into their woven depths. Enter another realm.

Become somebody else.

I swing my gaze to the left—

Shit.

Heart rioting like a caged beast, I flatten against the wall.

He didn’t sense me.

Didn’t sense me.

Didn’t—

“Hello, Milaje.”

The words are gravel, punching into my soles and buckling my composure.

Dammit.

Head tipped, I wait until my full-body shiver has run its course before I slam down my walls and shore up enough courage to shove into the light.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, tone firm.

He turns and walks backward—a flaming torch in one hand, his other shoved deep in the pocket of his black leather pants. “Your promised invited me for dinner.”

That’s a terrible idea.

“Well,” I say, studying his neck in the dim light, seeing no clear scar slashed across it. Nothing to pay homage to my almost slitting his throat last night. “Feel free to leave and come back precisely when the meal starts.”

“Getting quite bossy, aren’t you?” Brow arched, he holds my narrowed stare for a few triggering moments before he turns and continues down the way he was going. “I like it.”

Grinding my back teeth, I lift the hem of my skirt, rip my blade free, and advance, dagger wielded, intent on escorting him from the palace by the point of it. I’m about to reach up and whip it around his throat when he whirls—catching my wrist, my gaze, my breath in one smooth motion.

That silver stare roots through my insides, his rolled sleeves giving way to thick, tattooed forearms corded with unyielding strength.

My heart pounds.

One squeeze and my wrist would snap. A thought that shouldn’t thrill me like it does.

“I also like this,” he says, gaze flicking to my blade suspended between us. “Just so we’re clear.”

“You’re not going to like it when it’s hilt-deep in your flesh.”

“I wasn’t talking about the dagger, Orlaith. I’m talking about your living, breathing fire.”

An oily blackness spilling out in vicious, torrential spears.

Burning.

Silencing.

My stomach drops, arm muscles soften.

His brow buckles, and I whip my hand away from his loosening grip, shoving past.

“Milaje ...”

I gather up the front of my skirt, weaving the dagger back into the thigh sheath I fashioned from a torn strip of sheet, because fuck him and his fucking gift. “Cainon’s having his ships repaired on one of the outer islands. It would be in everyone’s best interest for you to find them and focus your attention there,” I say as I continue down the dusty hallway.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

I spin so fast my sodden hair slices through the air.

Brows raised, I scan the lengthy hallway that harbors zero ships and cast an icy glare his way. “Try harder.”

The challenge is tossed at him like it’s made of fire.

He watches me with a honed regard, his torch casting harsh shadows across his sculpted face that’s painful to look at. The very reason I don’t blink. Don’t break away.

Drug myself on the hurt.

He storms forward, holding my stare and lungs in his stony grip. “I intend to.” The words are pledged on a low growl as he charges past, his torch gasping for breath.

I grit my teeth and turn, watching him light a wall torch, illuminating more of the tomb of endless tapestries. He lifts one off the wall like a curtain, setting his torch on the floor before he raps his knuckles against the stone. “Interesting.” Another few knocks, and then he’s tracing the vein-like divots. “There used to be a hallway somewhere here,” he mumbles, and my curiosity rears her unwanted head.

Groaning internally, I dash forward, shoving into his frosty aura, ignoring my prickling skin as I run a hand over the stone and inspect the wall for any hidden seams. “Where did it lead?”

“Everywhere.” His hand runs the same path as mine, as though he’s chasing the trail of warmth. “An underground tunnel that wove beneath the city and stretched to some of the islands.”

Ahh.

He sets his ear to the wall, eyes closed. “It’s been barred up in other parts of the city, too.”

Internal walls rising swifter than my dropped hand, I narrow my stare. “Are you trying to poison me against my promised by insinuating he’s hiding something?”

“No,” he murmurs, knocking on the stone again, shifting a little. “You have big, wide eyes. You can see perfectly fine without my help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pushing back, he lets the tapestry drop with a thump that scatters a riot of dust. “I won’t determine your steps, Milaje. I’ll even let you trip. But I refuse to let you fall.”

My hands bunch into fists. “I don’t need you watching over my shoulder.”

“Not an option, I’m afraid.” His gaze hardens as he prowls forward, swallowing my space until I’m backed against the wall, smothered in the rich scent of leather and a crisp winter’s day. “I told you. I’ll hunt you to the four corners of the continent.”

The words wrap around my heart like a noose, all the blood draining from my face …

He’s not just here for the ships.

“I thought you were being—”

Another step reduces the space between us to a fragile sliver. “What?”

Goosebumps explode across my skin as that final inch is crushed, his body fitting against mine as though we were cast from the same mold then split two ways.

His exhale falls upon my upturned face like a midwinter breeze, and I draw deep, barely managing to stifle a moan.

I don’t need this.

I need it to hurt.

“Dramatic,” I rasp, feeling each of his breaths crush me further into the stone, grinding me down.

His gaze drops to my lips, up again. “It’s not in my nature to spit words without purpose.”

“Well,” I scoff. “I wouldn’t know.”

I don’t know you.

“ThenI’ll repeat.” The words blast me like a blow of frost. “So it’s perfectly clear.”

I lift my chin. Hone my stare.

Challenge him to make it sting.

“There is nowhere you can hide. Nowhere you can go. Even if this were to stop beating,” he says, threading his hand over my rioting heart, “I’d follow.”

The final two words carve under my skin like a sawtooth blade, and I see something very different staring back at me from behind those blackening eyes. Something savage and deadly.

I should be frightened …

“But I’ll let you trip, Milaje. Because it’s those trips that spark your flame—something you’re going to need in this cruel, greedy world that has no fucking mercy, because it doesn’t think before it chews.”

Neither do I.

I roll my head to the left—veer the final blow and escape his scouring stare.My gaze lands on an open archway between two tapestries, a sliver of bright shafting through a dull skylight, illuminating—

Books.

Stacks of stored books.

Finally.

“Great chat. Super uplifting. Now, if you could step out of my way …” I try to wriggle free, but all that really does is familiarize me with the stony slants of his powerful body. “I’ve found what I was looking for.”

He glances over his shoulder to the opposite wall, and though he doesn’t move an inch, I somehow feel less stuck to the stone.

Jerking free, I snatch his sputtering torch off the ground and dash toward the room, stepping within the eerily silent space, breathing thick, musty air as I scan the uneven piles of books—some almost twice my height, others no higher than my knee. So many books, I’m certain I could spend the rest of my life pawing over the words and never make it through them all.

I think.

I have no idea what my life expectancy is. Perhaps I’m eternal. A simmering stain that doesn’t rub out.

That’s one of the things I’m here to find out.

I weave down a wiggly path between the stacks, settle near a navel-high pile, and blow the thick icing of dust from the top, batting the swirling particles that rush up to meet me.

It’s no Spines, that’s for sure.

“These symbols on the front …” Rhordyn’s deep, echoing voice rattles me as he reaches past, casting shivers up my arm.

Across my chest.

I feel my nipples pinch into tight little peaks when he traces the gold-brushed stamp pressed into the leather.

A shifting mountain would feel less significant.

“It’s ancient Valish for mathematics,” he says, the words a cold blow against my ear. “In case you were wondering.”

“You ruined the surprise,” I croak.

“Apologies.”

“Not forgiven.”

Jaw set, he makes this low, rumbling sound that almost buckles my knees, then paces between the stacks, inspecting the scene as though he’s studying a field for the most advantageous way to battle amongst it. “It appears Cain shifted his entire library down here.”

Probably thought they looked messy stacked in his pristine, blue-stone shrine.

“Better than using the books for firewood,” I mumble flatly, receiving a grunt in return.

I pry my gaze away from the brutish anomaly tucked between the fragile stacks, leaving little room for me to breathe.

Or think.

No.

Frowning, I force my lungs full and snatch the book from the top of the pile, flick through the pages, and confirm that it is, in fact, entirely dedicated to mathematical equations.

Snapping it shut, I set it aside and scan the stacks …

It’s going to take forever to find what I’m looking for.

Shit.

To be fair, I could just … ask Rhordyn for all the answers I’m seeking. He seems to be in a talkative mood.

I risk a peep, watching him skim through a book that looks so frail in his large hand, brow pinched.

No. I’d rather eat my own liver than send my curiosity marching to his slaughterhouse.

Again.

Worse—what if he indulges it?

I’m not sure how I’d handle that.

Not anymore.

It’d be more a curse than a gift. Would make it a little harder to hate him.

Resigned to my fate, I get back to the small pile before me, cut the stack in two, sit cross-legged on the floor, then snatch one to flick through. Mercifully, it’s written in the common tongue.

A tense silence stretches between us.

It’s full of thieved glances past my hair; of nipping flutters of chill that hit me in the side of the face when I least expect it—his scent packing the room full, drugging me a little with every contraband breath.

My body reacts to his nearness, desperate to fall into his orbit.

Subtly, I reach around and pinch the back of my arm, the action hidden by my veil of hair …

No.

* * *

Imassage the back of my neck, a thick, leather-bound volume on the art of war bared across my stretched legs; my brimming knapsack lumped on the floor beside me.

My stare runs off the page to where Rhordyn’s crouched like some perched beast, blowing off the spine of a small, red-bound book. He begins flicking through the pages with a veracious sort of hunger, pausing before snapping it shut like a monster’s maw.

I flinch.

He pushes up and turns, striking me with his full attention for the first time in hours as he stalks forward, strong thighs tensing with every powerful step, making me feel miniature—tucked on the ground in a dusty fold.

He stops before me and extends the book.

Frowning, I look between the blank spine and his condemning stare. “What’s that?”

“A somewhat accurate translation of Valish.” My heart thuds to a stop, and I swear he sees straight through my skin and flesh and muscle and bone to the startled organ. “Thought you might find it useful.”

His stare dares me to look.

To see.

To pour over the pages and assuage my hungry curiosity.

I glance at the book again, regarding it in a whole new light—a single word hacking at me like the honed tip of a diamond pickaxe.

Milaje.

Milaje.

Milaje.

“I’m not sure I have any use for it,” I rasp, buttering my features with bland detachment.

“You can’t think of a single one?”

“Nope.”

He dashes a smear of dust on his pants like a slap of paint, drops to a crouch, and stuffs the book inside my knapsack. “Just in case.”

I snatch the crochet straps from his outstretched hand, the bag heavy with every book that looked even slightly promising. “You’re different.”

The words blurt out of their own, like they’re desperate to bridge some sort of gap between us.

I’m poisoned by instant regret.

“So are you.”

The words hit.

Disable.

Almost make my throat close up.

A challenge and a question disguised as a statement, like he’s asking me to spew my ugly at his booted feet.

I remember how that felt—to look at him and wish he’d give me something.

Anything.

I remember the cold snap of disappointment that swiftly followed, time and time again.

“That’s because I’m done,” I mutter, giving him my back as I shove to a stand and stalk toward the exit. “Don’t follow or I’ll make you bleed again.”

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