Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“I watched you sneak out,” he says bluntly. “What were you running from? Or should I ask who?” His eyes search mine, daring me to answer. Even if I want to answer, the lump in my throat won’t let me.
I whip my head from side to side. We can’t do this right now. “We need to gather the vitalians. Get to the game.”
“I’ve already sent for them.”
I blink, startled and impressed.
“I bumped into Nicostratus’s head aklo on his way there. He said there’d be a thousand spectators, including the refugees.”
“That was enough for you to know they were in trouble?”
“Call it instinct. Suspicion.”
I tell him about the commander’s father, dying at the hands of the town, and Quin steers me roughly into the nearest buggy. He tells the driver to bring us to the redcloak outpost, and then an awkward silence swells between us as we rattle over cobbled roads.
Quin glowers. I fidget.
I look out the window, and back at his brooding expression. When he meets my gaze, I rip mine away, and when I sneak it back, I find his still rooted on me. I jump, and whisper-blurt, “What?”
If there’d been shadows over his face before, they were nothing to now. Quin leans forward, scrutinising me. “You don’t recall last night?”
My chest pounds wildly, and a shiver zips deep down my middle. To be looking at me this intensely . . . something significant happened. I shift on the bench, crossing an ankle, jiggling my foot, uncrossing it. Do I inquire? Can I handle it?
I’m supposed to be gone. After today, I will leave again.
“What do you remember?” he asks softly, but the kind of softly that feels like a mask.
I jerk a finger at his attire. “You’re not wearing your uniform. Why were you headed for the constabulary?”
He growls. “I told you, I saw you this morning. I followed you. Saw your arrest. I was making a plan to bring you out.”
Is he upset I left after . . . whatever significant happened last night? I swallow. “I thought the drakopagon would’ve been”—his eyes flash, and I mumble the last part—“your priority.”
We stare at one another, and then he says, “I shouldn’t be so surprised you weaselled your way out of confinement.”
“Surprised?” I choke. “That isn’t . . . what you looked like.”
He raises one tight brow. “What did I look like?”
Like you’d whisk me away and lock me up all over again. “A smidgeon upset—”
The buggy jolts over a rock, causing me to fly off my seat and into Quin. I scramble to find balance, to push myself back, but he curls an arm around me and hauls me closer. My breath puffs against his chin and I lift my gaze to deep, dark eyes.
“A smidgeon?” He presses his face so close our noses graze, and his steely focus drops briefly to my lips before rising again. “Want me to remind you what happened last night?”
Shivers bolt hard and fast through me and when he opens his mouth to speak, I clamp my palm against his lips. I shake my head wildly.
Don’t. I don’t think I should know.
Don’t make it harder for me to leave.
My hand is trembling over his face and he hums hotly against my skin.
I talk before he tries. “It’s not the time for . . . this.”
His hand comes up to mine and drags across my fingers. He’s feeling my shaking from all sides, and it . . . softens the look in his eye. He inclines his head and I slowly, slowly drop my hand.
His arm tightens around me, crushing me to his chest, and he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t you dare leave my side until we’ve talked.”
He releases his hold on me and I slink to the opposite seat.
I bite my lip and I’m first to flee the tight confines of the buggy when it stops at the bottom of the hill. I start towards the outpost and he immediately grabs my hood, reining me back to his side. “I meant what I said.”
By his side. Right.
There’s a crowd being checked at the outpost gates and entry is a slow process. Quin presents our letter of admission, and at my lingering look at it, informs me Nicostratus gave it to him yesterday.
At the mention of the prince, I steer my gaze elsewhere. Once inside, we take to lurking in the shadows as we scope out the arena and search for the commander.
A cordoned-off area of a flat expanse of grass defines the drakopagon pitch and around it mill a thousand spectators. There’s a betting station set up on one grassy flank, and by a large margin, the favour is for a redcloak triumph. On the opposing flank is a welcoming station, where nobles are perhaps trying to sway guests in their favour. Soldiers knock back the drinks, laughing, but the smirks on their faces tell me they’re still not placing their money on the opposing team. There’s more hesitation when they’re confronted by an exquisitely dressed Sparkles, fluttering her eyelashes and swishing her skirts.