“So, you lied to me.”
Victor pauses, the door he had just opened swings back toward him but is stopped by his foot. “I didn’t lie,” he argues, placing his hand on his hips. “I just… didn’t give you all the details… immediately.”
I arch my brow. “You knew I hated guardsmen, and then you failed to tell me that you were a guardsman.”
Victor turns his attention back to the door and pushes it open. We’re in the middle of searching the other rooms of the inn for the scattered guests. Then Victor has the grand idea of making them all read from a spellbook to make certain that they aren’t sorcerers. I’m not sure what he plans on doing when we find the sorcerer, but I guess I should just be glad that he hasn’t thought of having me read that spellbook.
As a sorceress that could end poorly for me.
I don’t have it in me to feel glad, I’m just too jetting frustrated. After all this time, I am back to the same mistakes of the past. Married to a guardsman?
I married a guard once and I’ll take the blame for that. I thought our love could overcome our moral differences. But to be fooled into marrying a guard again? That’s Victor’s fault.
“What was I supposed to do?” he protests. “You only informed me of hating guardsmen after we were married. I can’t change what I was, I’m not actually a guardsman anymore.”
“Once a guardsman, always a prat.”
“You aren’t honestly mad at me over this are you?” Victor demands, whirling towards me. “It was a former employment. I never even liked being a guard. Besides, me being a guard never came up and when it did—”
“You lied to my face. You had the chance to come clean and you chose to keep me in the dark.”
“Um… maybe I should go check a different room,” Estelle suggests as she gestures down the hall. I ignore her as I stride after Victor.
“I never lied,” he argues. “You just never asked, and don’t you think we have more pressing issues right now?” He reaches up, running a hand through his hair, clearly agitated.
I feel a quick pang of guilt over being so angry. It’s true, I didn’t actually ask Victor if he was a guard when we met. Victor isn’t Petrov. I can’t very well place my first husband’s transgressions on him.
And yet, aren’t they the same? They are both guards, they’ll always put their first love—the law— before me. I learned that the hard way when Petrov learned of my criminal undertakings.
I had thought that he had sworn to stand by my side forever, but that was apparently only if I was a law-abiding citizen. Instead, he sold me out, led to my downfall, and then got himself killed before we had a chance to make things right.
And if given half the chance, Victor will do the same thing.
He already has Petrov’s ridiculous self-sacrificing tendency, just proving that these guards are all the same. They’re too good, too righteous for a sinner like me.
Somehow, I’ve wound up bound to yet another one. I’m not ready for another thousand years imprisonment only to wake up as if it all happened yesterday and to feel the heartache as fresh as ever.
I jab Victor in his chest. “It makes me wonder what other secrets you are keeping.”
This takes Victor aback, the frustration in his expression is quickly replaced by panic. “What? Nothing!” he says too hastily, too desperately.
Estelle pauses on her way down the hall and away from our drama. She lets out a snort. “Please, just because Victor is a guard doesn’t mean that he is leading a secret life. He’s too straightlaced for that. If there is one thing that you can always count on, it’s that Victor will be the same old person he always was. It’s a bit boring, but hey at least he’s dependable like that.”
Victor whips his head to Estelle, his eyes narrowing. “Precisely,” he says even though the words seem to pain him.
I work my bottom jaw as I study him. “Take off your shirt,” I say after a second.
Victor backs up a step, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if scandalized by my suggestion. Estelle’s eyes widen in shock, and she turns, taking off down the hall finally making good on her suggestion to leave us to our marital disagreement.
“Now is hardly the time,dear,” he protests.
“You should be dead; you should be bleeding everywhere and yet you’re not. I want to know why. Now. Take. Off. Your. Shirt.” I tilt my head, arching my brow. “Or should I remove it for you?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he pauses a second as if seriously considering my offer. But then his fingers tighten around thecollar of his shirt as if he is really concerned that I’m about to rip it off him. His knuckles whiten as he turns his brown gaze to me. “All the ways I imagined you saying that tonight, I never thought it would come out sounding so threatening.”
I ignore him and lunge at him, grabbing at his coat. “How can you be all right? That glass should have killed you; sorcerers don’t miss.”
He jerks his coat out of my hand. “Don’t sound so disappointed, honey.”
