“Jaira Hamartano,” he muttered. “She hunts for sport?”
“Who?” Mistel asked.
Cole exhaled. Who, indeed. “Daughter of Jaelport’s ruling lady. She fancies herself a princess. Not exactly the hunting type.”
Mistel pointed at another name. “This one was shipped by Verdot Amal. Isn’t he the one who runs Ice Island?”
“Yes…” Cole frowned. “I could see Amal buying livestock to feed prisoners, but selling it doesn’t make sense.” He flipped through more invoices. Dozens listed Verdot Amal as the shipper.
A sharp whistle sliced through the air, sending a jolt through Cole.
“That’s Zanna’s signal,” Mistel whispered.
“Zanna has a signal of her own?” Cole asked.
“Why shouldn’t she?”
Didn’t matter. Cole shoved the invoice into his pocket and the rest back into the drawer. He hurried to the window and spotted Zanna speaking to a man who was ascending the stairs.
“It’s one of Thusk’s men,” Cole whispered. “I saw him at the banquet.”
His heart pounded as he spun, searching for a place to hide.
“In here!” Mistel yanked open a narrow door. A broom closet. Cole noted its lock and slipped inside. Mistel followed, her skirts brushing his leg as she pulled the door shut.
In the dark, Cole fumbled with Thusk’s keys, hands trembling as he tried one after another. The jingle of metal seemed deafening in the cramped space. Finally, the lock clicked. He tucked the keys into his pocket and stilled.
Someone’s coming, Kurtz bloodvoiced.
We saw. We’re hiding.
If it comes to it, don’t confront him. Invent a story.
Right. A story for why he and Mistel were hiding in a closet. He could only think of one.
Cole heard nothing but their breathing and his pulse pounding in his ears. The closet barely fit one person, let alone two. Mistel’s shoulder pressed against his chest, her warm breath tickling his ear. The faint scent of mint, lemon, and parchment clung to her. He turned his head, and his nose brushed hers. He swallowed hard, locking his gaze on the inky darkness above her head. His body betrayed him, every nerve on high alert. He wanted to kiss her—oh, how he wanted to—but he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Cousins and all.
A door creaked. Bootsteps.
The intruder clomped across the floor, pausing at the desk. Papers rustled. Drawers slammed. Cole shifted, his boot scuffing Mistel’s. She grabbed his wrist, stilling him, then ran her fingers along the beads of the bracelet she’d given him months ago. The trinket he couldn’t bear to part with, even as he pretended, daily, not to care for her.
The footsteps were moving again, growing louder. Outside the closet.
The latch rattled.
Cole held his breath. Arman, keep us safe.
Mistel’s fingers tightened around Cole’s wrist. The intruder cursed, shook the latch again before stepping back.
Then the footsteps retreated. The front door creaked and finally clicked shut.
The office fell silent.
Mistel released a long sigh.
Cole didn’t move. He strained his ears, waiting for any sound that might signal the man’s return—or that he’d only pretended to leave and was waiting right outside the closet.
You’re in the clear, Kurtz bloodvoiced. He’s coming down.
