The words rang false. She was lying.
But like a fool, he took the bait. “What about it?”
His pretty wife donned her pride again like armor. Her chin lifted. Her eyes locked with his. “I merely wondered if you meantto give offense by ordering me a ring in your family’s colors rather than my own? Or if it was a mere oversight on your part?”
The words landed like a blow to his jaw, knocking him off-kilter.
What a vapid creature. A self-absorbed, ungrateful, spiteful—
Aldric swallowed back all the things he truly wished to say to the woman before him. For better or worse, she was his wife. His ally. His one chance to reclaim his birthright, given the weight she carried with the Church.
But even all of that couldn’t keep him from growling, “Are you truly cross with me because your ring isn’t in the right color?” His attention fell toward her left hand, to the ring glittering there.
The ring he had spent far too much time toying with when he was a child.
Thinning his lips, he snapped his gaze back to his kirei’s own gray and coldly pointed out, “That was my mother’s ring.”
On any other day, he would have been more than happy to bask in the shock that wrote itself across her face in the wake of his words. But on that particular day? He was tired. Tired of too many questions with no answers. Tired of playing the part of a gentleman.
Tired of her.
Without another word, he turned his back on Seraphina de la Croix.
And slammed the door in her face.
Chapter seventeen
Talia
Arath’s capital city of Ja’ni glittered in the dying light—a desert jewel built around the cool, clean water of the Lady’s Oasis. Layers upon layers of buildings sculpted from red clay and decorated with bright blue mosaics lined the winding streets. A warm breeze blew. Laughter and song spilled from the open windows. Her people were happy.
But then again, there was much to celebrate.
The palace reported that the King of Arath, Andreas Saadeh, was finally on the mend. It had been over a year since anyone had seen him after a strange illness first laid him low, but news from the front was bolstering his spirits. The war against their Elmorian oppressors was going well.
They were winning.
Continuing her thoughts aloud from where she stood on the edges of the market district, waiting for Sister Skatia, Talia commented sidelong to the two Witchsworn who accompanied her, “I imagine the siege on Mysai will break any day now.”
The men were silent in reply—mere statues built from rippling muscle and smooth, walnut-hued skin. She frowned and pushed back the crimson silk of her cloak, revealing the soulblade strapped to her hip.
When she wrapped her hand around the jewel-crowned hilt, it warmed beneath her touch, power buzzing against her fingertips. With authority, she barked, “Malik. Hazim. Speak to me.”
The men moved in unison. Two sets of dark brown eyes swiveled her way.
Malik spoke first in his deep rumble. “Yes, Mistress.”
Hazim asked, “What should we speak about, Mistress?”
A peal of laughter sounded from just behind her. Mocking. Familiar.Skatia. “Why are you trying to speak with them, Sister?” the other woman asked as she swept into view, painfully beautiful as ever and accompanied by two Witchsworn of her own.
Her long hair spilled down her back in an ebony curtain. Gold jewelry flashed at her ears and throat. Her full lips curved into an amused smile. Lips painted crimson to match her robes. “You know Witchsworn are good for two things and two alone.” She ticked them off on her long, slender fingers. “Fighting and dying.”
Talia shot a look toward Malik and Hazim, but neither man looked at all bothered by being spoken about in such a way. They simply stood there, watching her, waiting for her next command.
Averting her gaze, she changed the subject. “Are you ready, then?”
Skatia rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, let’s go before we’re late for the meeting.” Her older Sister led the way through the marketplace, prowling back toward the temple compound with feline grace.