He’s dead,she chanted inside her mind. Her fingers found the hard wood of her bench and began tapping slowly and rhythmically.He cannot hurt you.
But she knew it was no use. The crisis gripped her in earnest, her heart trying to hack its way out of her rib cage as every fear she’d tried to suppress surged forth. She was going to die here, so far from home, and without fulfilling her promise to Eisa that they’d meet. No one would ever know what had happened to her.
The crisis passed with torturous slowness, leaving Saga shaking. In the weeks since she’d arrived, she’d suffered dozens of the attacks. To her great chagrin, the tapping ritual Kassandr had taught her helped the attacks pass more effectively than anything else she’d tried.
Still, she eyed the door to her balcony warily, but the mere sight of it sent her heart skittering once more.Not today, she told herself. But one day soon, she needed to step outdoors. She’d made suchprogress in the weeks before she’d been taken from Íseldur, and she did not want to lose her nerve. Besides, if she wanted to leave this gods-forsaken isle, she’d need to get used to open skies. But before that, it would be wise to learn the layout of this sprawling fortress. Learn what secrets and advantages it might have for her.
Her shaking subsided, and Saga fortified herself for what would come next. The knife lay heavily beneath her bodice, and soon Kassandr Rurik would arrive, as he did each morning.
And for the first time in a week, Saga was ready to face him.
It was Saga’s handmaiden, Alasa, who arrived first, knocking lightly three times before entering. Saga didn’t know what the point of knocking was when a door was locked from the outside, but she kept her irritation to herself. It was not Alasa’s fault.
Her handmaiden backed into the room, clutching a large tray. Clad in a dress of heavy blue fabric that was secured with an ornamental crimson belt, Alasa wore a kerchief tied around her black hair. Saga averted her gaze, wondering what the poor girl had done to be assigned to serve her. Alasa never complained, but she also never smiled, performing her duties with a no-nonsense air. The tray thudded onto the table, Alasa efficiently unloading its contents.
Saga thought of the books filled with Zagadkian words, and pointed at the bowl of porridge-like substance, asking, “What is this called?”
Alasa’s brows furrowed in concentration as she tried to glean her meaning. But as her gaze followed Saga’s to the bowl, understanding settled in her expression. “Kasha,” she answered brusquely.
“Med.” She tapped a small carafe of honey.
“Smorodina.” A bowl of blackcurrants.
“Róa?” Saga asked hopefully.
The girl looked at her blankly, then nodded. “Róa,” she replied with a curtsy, then left.
Saga sighed, staring down at the table. She knew she ought to be grateful for what she had; that the people of Íseldur were goinghungry amid a grain shortage. But thiskashawas not the same as Íseldurian porridge, and the blackcurrants were strange and tart. And róa…gods above, what she’d give for a nice cup of spiced róa to warm her from the inside out.
“Perhaps you might like the Zagadkiansbiten,” drifted Kassandr Rurik’s voice from the doorway.
Saga gripped the table’s edge, trying to ease the jagged beat of her heart.
“Or if you are truly missing Íseldurian róa, we can heat water and throw in some sticks to give to you the bitter taste of it.”
Saga knew he was baiting her, but she could not keep herself from reacting. Her nostrils flared and her gaze flew to him. Kassandr looked irritatingly handsome as he leaned in the doorway—his posture so casual it was easy to forget the predator lurking beneath. But Saga refused to forget. She lifted her eyes to his, and a jolt ran down her spine.
Green.
Green like the beast that had stared her down in the depths of that ship.
Green like the man she’d thrown caution to the wind for.
Gods, she was such a fool. How could she not have realized this man’s nature was anything but human? There was the way he’d smelled her blood the day they’d met; the strange growl that had scared Jarl Skotha’s hound away. And then there were the impossible moves he’d displayed while fighting Thorir the Giant. If she’d missed such glaring signs, could she really trust her own intuition?
“What do you want?” Saga now asked, loosening her grip on the table.
The moment of silence in the wake of her words told Saga that Rurik had expected her to send him away as she had every other time he’d come to see her. But the man recovered quickly. “I want many things,” he drawled, pushing off the doorway and strolling into her chambers.
Saga tried to ignore how his structured jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders; how the power of his strides hinted atsomething barely leashed within. She stared at his hands, searching for any sign of those strange, creeping tattoos, but there was nothing but sun-kissed skin marred by the occasional scar.
The clank of boot buckles punctuated each step he took, and Saga’s foolish heart instinctively took off at a gallop. She silently cursed herself—the man could likely hear her heartbeats with his inhuman abilities.
His fingertips landed on the table, and Rurik leaned closer. “Above everything, Winterwing, I wish to know how you fare. Is room to your liking?”
He sank into the chair across from hers and folded a leg over his knee.
Nothing about you stealing me is to my liking!she wanted to scream. Instead, Saga scowled, and asked, “Must you lock my door?” She forced herself to meet those green eyes.Cunning and dangerous, much like a mountain cat’s,she’d once thought. Little had she known, she was not far off.
