Of courseTiberiuswas here. Of course she had allowed him to skulk in her shadow again.
The moment Mourn lowered himself to the ground, Aldric mounted with brusque efficiency and shoved his feet into the stirrups. Only then did he turn his head to the side and lock eyes with his wife as his horse rocked back to a standing position.
She was mounted herself, immaculate in her blue gown embroidered with a gold stag—every inch a de la Croix. Sitting tall and proud, her crown gleaming in the weak morning sun. But her eyes…
Her eyes were colder than the steel he wore—colder than the morning itself. They stared clean through him.
As if he weren’t even there.
Her godmother and Spymaster flanked her, matching expressions carved into their faces. No doubt she had already told them everything.
And behind her rodehim. His wife’s tall, golden peacock. Exactly the kind of man Aldric had never been. And never would be.
The moment their gazes locked, Lord Tiberius smiled—slow and smug.
Aldric turned his head to the side and spat on the cobblestones.
He wanted to ask her what she was doing there, what more she could possibly want with him. Instead, he reined Mourn around so he no longer had to contort himself to simply gaze at his wife with his one good eye and greeted her with a mere, “Your Majesty.”
“I merely wished to see you off,” she lied, each syllable crisp. Precise. “And to wish you well in your campaign. No doubt you will do us proud, Crow.”
Do us proud.
His lips twitched. “I will do my best to survive.”
Even though you would prefer if I didn’t, kirei.
Sir Easome’s voice rose above the din of soldiers and stamping horses. “Your Majesty! Are we ready to move?”
Aldric ground his teeth, staring at his cold, perfect wife.Yes. He should say yes. He should turn Mourn, ride hard for Arlund, and let the walls of Goldreach—and everything inside them—fall away until all of this was nothing but a distant memory.
But he didn’t.
“In a moment,” he called back, nudging Mourn closer to Sera’s little mare.
His kirei’s nostrils flared. Her back stiffened. “What are you doing?” she hissed, her gaze darting to her attack rat, then back tohim. “Crow—”
He ignored the warning in her tone and reached across the narrowing space between them, seizing her left wrist in a firm, unyielding clasp.
Beneath his touch, she trembled.
Within that nearness, her breath caught.
He felt it. He heard it.
He pretended as if he didn’t.
“Hold still,” he muttered, shoving back the sleeve of his jerkin, exposing the dagger strapped tight against his left forearm. With a warrior’s practiced efficiency, he unclasped the buckles holding it secure.
“What are you doing?” she asked again—softer this time, confused.
But again, he didn’t answer.
Because he no longer knew.
He didn’t allow himself to think about it. Her trembling. Her warmth. Her nearness. The smooth expanse of her pale skin he revealed when he pushed aside the velvet sleeve hiding her own wrist.
He merely strapped his dagger onto her wrist with brisk movements, careful not to pinch her as he cinched the straps tight. Avoiding her gaze, he tugged her sleeve back into place, hiding the blade from view.
