“It’s not funny, Huntsman. I’m being serious.”
It takes him several moments to even remotely sober from his amusement. All the while, my cheeks grow redder. I’m not sure whether I’m more embarrassed or angry. When he does manage to stop laughing, he’s left with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. The sight of it does something strange to my belly.
“You could have come up with a thousand other possibilities to explain your innocence,” he says, “but Queen Tris murdering Edmund Snow, her beloved husband? Nice try.”
“You’re laughing over my father’s death, Huntsman.”
That wipes the smile off his face.
“I meant what I said. Queen Tris is the real killer.”
His brow furrows as he studies my face. Or what he can see of it. I stare right back, seeking my reflection in his eyes. I’ve only managed to glimpse it a time or two, but it always shows me the same thing as before—something small, weak, and vulnerable. Qualities that don’t seem to exist in my captor at all, neither as positive attributes nor negative ones. The impression itself feels threadbare, fraying at the edges. I’ve never had this happen before.
He lets out a grumbling sigh. “Fine. I’ll humor you. Why are you so convinced the queen killed your father? What motive could she possibly have had?”
I nibble my bottom lip, preparing my words. This is my chance. Stating the truth won’t be enough. Whatever I say must be convincing. Logical. “Queen Tris never meant to murder my father. She was trying to poison me.”
“Why would she use a poison that is weak against someone with fae blood?”
That’s a question I’ve had ever since the Huntsman told me Crimson Malus had been involved. Before he told me that, I’d already deduced that poison had killed my father. I’d also guessed the pie had been the vehicle that delivered said poison. The type of poison used, however, throws a hitch in my theory. “I…I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t realize it wouldn't work on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she never bothered to learn of my fae heritage. Honestly, I doubt she’d have let me into the palace, much less married my father, if she knew what sort of creature my mother was.”
“What sort of creature was she?”
I bristle, annoyed at myself for even bringing my mother up. She’s the last person I want to talk about. “A water sprite. An unsavory unseelie type. You know, the kind Queen Tris finds far beneath her. She abandoned me when I was a baby. So, on second thought, perhaps they’d have been kindred spirits.”
The Huntsman’s eyelids narrow to slits. “I sense much disdain for the queen.”
My eyes fly to his. “Of course I have disdain for her.”
“Because she tried to make you leave the palace?”
“Because shekilled my father.”
He folds his arms over his chest, a move that drags my cuff with such force, it pulls me to my feet. I nearly collide with him, but he braces my shoulders with his hands. I’m so caught off guard my breath hitches. His hands are warm and strong on my shoulders, and when I tilt my head back, I meet his eyes. Their honeyed hue glitters in the lamplight. Warmth rushes through my chest and spreads outward. A buzzing heat sizzles every inch of my skin his palms touch, even through my shirt—
In an abrupt move, he releases my shoulders and takes a full step back.
I blink at the space between us as my mind clears a little. Only then do I realize I’d been trapped in a moment of euphoria…over my captor. Damn that tincture! I shift to the side and run a hand through the ends of my hair to distract myself from my embarrassment, but my moves feel slow. Heavy. Perhaps taking three drops was a little too much this time.
“Blooming hell, you really are high. I should not be entertaining murder theories from you right now. You aren’t in your right mind.”
I scoff. “My mind is just fine. My tincture only affects my mood. And…and maybe my body a little.”
He shakes his head. “You should get some sleep.”
“No,” I say, fully facing him again. “I’m not done talking about this. You promised you’d hear me out. That you’d give me a full hour.”
“I never said when I’d give that hour, nor did I say it would be one consecutive hour.”
“Please,” I say, infusing my voice with desperation. “I need you to listen to me.”
He moves his arms as if to try and cross them again but seems to think better of it last minute. Instead, he tucks his free hand in his pocket and slouches slightly to one side. On anyone else, such a stance would look casual. But on him, it looks as intimidating as ever. “Is this truly the hour you wish to waste?”
“Yes, this is the hour I wish touse.”
“Fine,” he bites out. “Go ahead. Tell me how your stepmother murdered her beloved husband usingyourpie and the poisonyoucarry at all times.”
A flutter of satisfaction ripples through me, made all the more enjoyable by my tincture’s influence. “First of all,” I say, sifting through everything I want to say, “Let us speak aboutmymotive. I had no reason to kill my father.”
