“No.”
“If the two of you walk out of here as you are, you won’t survive the night. I rode through this weather to get here. The danger is real.”
His voice is so calm, so reasonable. As if to emphasize his point, a gust of wind rattles the door and whistles around the frame.
“I’ll find us more gear,” I say.
“And how long will that—”
“I told you to shut up,” I growl, finally snapping my head around to look at him. “So stop talking.”
He shuts up. But he doesn’t look away. It’s progressively getting more dim in the room, and the firelight gleams in his eyes.
It’s too intense, and it makes me think of the way we were standing in the snow, my fingers threading the lacings of his trousers.I’mthe one who has to turn away.
I heave an unsettled breath. I should’ve just killed him.
Damn it, Jory.
Less than a day ago, I was curled around her in bed. She pulled at my gloves and begged me to stay. I kissed her goodbye, and it took everything inside of me to keep it from turning into more.
Would I have been so reckless if that hadn’t happened?
The king speaks into my silence. “You seemed upset with the princess when she mentioned theseslavers.”
I’m quiet for a moment because I’m not sure what to say to that. “I wasn’t upset with her.”
“You were.”
“She rarely leaves the palace. It’s not her fault that she doesn’t know.” It’s my fault, really. I could’ve told her about my life at any point over the last ten years—but I didn’t. Icouldn’t. “You heard her. A lot of people think like that—that it’s allfairandjust. Or sometimes they think it’s what a criminal deserves. Either way, it’s seen as...aslabor. Simple tasks for a short while, and then you earn your freedom.”
“But it’s not?”
I scoff and look at him. “Why do you care? It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” His golden eyes hold mine. “I’m to ally with this country, Asher. I would know its faults as well as its promise.”
That makes me go still. Every word is so earnest.
I don’t like to think of my time with the slavers, but this conversation—or maybe this situation—has dredged the memories up anyway. I think of the men and women I’ve seen, waiting in the stockyards to learn their fate, how one man could be sent to work in a shop, sweeping the floor and having a bed at night, but the woman next to him might be sold to a soldier who wanted a plaything to tether to his bunk. When I was freshly exiled from the palace, charged and convicted of conspiring with a traitor, I was sold off and chained to a post that very night. I remember the men and women who would stroll through the aisles, tugging at hair, prying mouths open, ripping clothes away to reveal what was available. I’d just lost my mother. I’d lost everything I’d ever known. I remember fighting my bonds, pulling away from every prying hand, until a woman nearby whispered to me, “Don’t fight. Some of them arelookingfor the ones that fight.”
At sixteen, it was terrifying.
At twenty-six, it’s worse. I know where I’d go and what would happen to me. I’m more agile than strong, so I’d never be picked for hard labor. I’dpreferhard labor. Instead, my bright hair and blue eyes would catch someone’s eye. I’d be sold right back into one of the brothels. I’d spend my days chained to a rail beside a bed or a chair—or even just a dirty corner without so much as thin carpet over the wood floor.
I was young the first time I escaped, but I knew I’d be caught. No one lets a prized pet out of its cage for too long. But I didn’t mind the punishment. I thought people might see that first stripe on my cheek and avoid a whore who’s marked asdifficult.
I was wrong. Instead, I discovered how many people would see a mark of rebellion and take it as a challenge.
When I was accepted to train as a Hunter, the Guildmaster seemed surprised that I didn’t balk at his lessons on killing. But after my yearsin brothels and arenas, after my years in chains, I’d endured more than I thought I could survive. Killing meant freedom. So I did it.
The king is watching me, and I realize I haven’t said a word. His voice is very low, very quiet. “Youdo not believe it’s fair.”
Tension has crawled down my arms to tighten my fingers. I’ve never found the courage to discuss any of this with Jory. She’s too protected, too far removed—and I never want her to see me that way. I want her to remember the Asher she knew when we were young, the boy who’d steal cookies off a warm tray and sneak through the palace.
Not the Asher who was left naked and starving and shoved onto his knees to enforce obedience. Not the Asher who learned to kill so he could survive.
“Tell me,” says the king.
