Dressed simply in a long-sleeved black shirt, jeans, and boots with her dark auburn curls brushing her shoulders, she calmly strides inside, shoulders straight, head up. She doesn’t glance around, her gaze forward, her gait confident, unfaltering.
And though four armed guards flank her, it’s obvious to everyone in this room she’s a queen.
The only queen.
And from the fury glittering in Abena’s eyes and twisting her mouth in a snarl, she knows it, too.
The mass of people crowded into the room parts like a swollen sea before a prophet waving a staff, and she walks right down the middle, not stopping until she stands before the steps of that gaudy throne and its gaudier owner.
Only then does she look away from Abena, and it’s to find me. As if she knew where I stood the entire time, her hazel gaze locks with mine, and the impact of it sends a seismic ripple through me.
Mine.
That’s what those jeweled eyes whisper to me. And in this moment, I have my answer about why she’s here. Why she’s turned herself in to Abena.
Because I’m hers.
The pain in my body ratchets down, drowned out by a buzzing, hot electrical current. When she looks away from me, returning her scrutiny to her aunt, I’m left with the handprint—the soul print—of that stare.
That eerie-looking muthafucka with the snow-white dreads strides into the room from a side entrance and approaches Abena, climbing the throne and bending down to whisper something in her ear. She nods, not removing her stare from Eshe. After a moment, he straightens and descends the steps before taking up a position directly beside her chair.
“You summoned me here, Abena,” Eshe announces in a clear, even voice, spreading her arms wide. A smile curves her soft, full mouth. “Here I am.”
“That’s ‘oba’ to you. ‘Here I am, oba,’” Abena says, leaning back in her high-backed chair, fingers curled around the arms.
She’s trying to seem unbothered. But goddamn, Abena’s bothered. She obviously expected Eshe to come in here crawling on her hands and knees, humbled and begging for mercy. And it’s fucking with her bad that shit’s not playing out like that. Especially in front of the congregation she’s gathered to worship at her altar.
They stare at one another, and you could hear mice fuck in this shit. The tension prickles my skin, tickling my exposed wounds, making them itch. Then, like a small ripple in a too-still pond, the murmurs begin. Soft, at first, but gradually gaining volume. Eshe doesn’t appear disturbed by the noise; she doesn’t twitch or so much as glance behind her.
But Abena…
A dark, twisted pleasure bends and kinks inside me. Abena searches the room, breaking that visual standoff with Eshe. And I don’t know about anyone else, but in my book, round one goes to Eshe.
As Abena’s pissed-off gaze lands back on her niece, I’m thinking it does in her book, too.
“Put her down on her knees,” Abena coldly orders. The guards on either side of Eshe hesitate, a wariness creeping across their faces. “I said, put her on. Her. Fucking. Knees.”
They move at the snarled order, grabbing Eshe’s arms and shoulders. When they can’t immediately force her down, one kicks her in the backs of the knees, and that takes her to the floor.
I stiffen, muscles coiled, and I’m ready to spring if they touch her again, cuffed and all. Once more, the female guard grabs me, this time just above the heavy, thick cuff on my wrist. I snatch my arm from her, and the motion must catch Abena’s attention because she looks in our direction, and triumph gleams in her eyes, lights up her face.
“Now that you’re where you belong, where atraitorbelongs,” Abena purrs, leaning back and tapping her long red nails on the arm of the chair, “we can begin.” At the wordtraitor, the whispers stir again, and Abena holds up a hand, silencing them. Her dramatic ass should’ve been an actress since she seems to thrive on this shit. “I’ve called your olori Eshe Diallo here today to face the most serious charge against our family: treason. How do you plead, Niece?”
Even on her knees, with the guards’ hands clamped on her shoulders, she doesn’t cower.
“That depends,” Eshe says.
“Oh, this should be good.” Abena shakes her head and waves a hand toward me. “When the evidence of your lies stands right there in front of everyone. Did you or did you not declare right here in this throne room that you’d killed the Huntsman?”
“I did.”
“So you admit you lied.”
Eshe shrugs. “Again, that depends.”
The arrogance seeps from Abena’s face, and her lips twist into a snarl, her eyes narrowing. Despite the situation, I suppress a snort. It’s almost fucking comical, Eshe’s ability to drive a person crazy.
“Look around you, Eshe. No one finds you amusing. No one thinks treason is a joking matter. Is betraying your family something you take so lightly?” she sneers.
