“ ‘In a different way’?” I echo.
She stares at me and flicks her eyes at my abdomen again.
Anya pulls back, then pats my belly. “Dabriel said that babies make you feel like you’re seasick sometimes, so—”
“No!” I say quickly, and I practically shove the little girl’s hand away from my belly. “No, I’m not pregnant.”
Dabriel looks back at me, then arches an eyebrow. “There’s no little princeling in there?”
“Absolutely not! We never—he never—” My cheeks must be on fire, and I clench my jaw. “No.There isnot.”
“Then why did you vomit on Rian?”
“Because Ihatehim.”
The words echo in the vastness of the room, the intensity of my emotion seeming to fill the space. Dabriel and Anya stare at me for a long moment as the last reverberations of my words fades.
Then Rian speaks from somewhere behind me. “Dabriel. Anya. Thank you for bringing some food. I’ll speak with Miss Cade alone.”
The heat on my cheeks stays right where it is—but my hands curl into fists. I can’t turn to look at him. All my emotions are still colliding.
“Send word if you need anything else,” Dabriel says. She gives me a nod, then turns to leave. Little Anya goes skipping after her.
But before she reaches the door, Anya stops and turns. “Don’t hate him, Miss Tessa,” she calls, followed by, “Idon’t hate you, Rian.” But then Dabriel must shush her, because there’s a muffled sound, followed by an echoing silence.
In it, I can hear every beat of my heart.
After a moment, I hear the shift of Rian’s boots, too, as he comes around to face me. I don’t want to meet his eyes, so I focus on his jaw, on his throat, on the stitched leather collar of his jacket.
“You should probably stay out of reach,” I say.
“I’ll take my chances,” he says. “Come. Sit. Have some coffee.” He pauses. “If you think you can stomach it.”
That draws my gaze up. “Would you all stop?” I snap. “I amnotpregnant.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were. I was just being kind, Miss Cade.” He pauses. “And possibly self-preserving. I do have a limited supply of boots.”
I hate that he’s being so mild. Every muscle in my body just wants to claw at him.
“Please,” he says. “Come. Sit.”
Fine. I’ll sit.
He doesn’t offer again. He just pours me a cup of coffee, then adds milk and sugar the way he did on the ship. The scent is heavenly, and I want to ask him to pour some for Rocco, too, but I remember what the guardsman said about my position. I don’t want to weaken myself.
He sets the coffee in front of me, then serves me a slice of the bread, which looks to be crusted with cinnamon and sugar.
I don’t touch either.
He serves himself some, then sits and takes a sip of coffee. “What do you think of Fairde?” he says, as if I’m here on a social call and there weren’t deaths and betrayals between us.
Fine. I can play this game.
“It’s very warm here,” I say.
“Warmer than your Royal Sector, I’ll agree.” He takes another sip. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
I think about Olive and the way she said she didn’t trust him, but I keep that to myself. I’m not sure I want to lead with the fact that we were shot at. It doesn’t seem smart to lead with vulnerabilities.
