I roll my eyes at his primitive, overprotective attitude and finish tossing my things into the center of the sheet. “She’s behind her own closed door, and she’s not doing anything stupid. Let it go.”
Griffin plants his hands on his hips. His chest expands on a deep breath as he tilts his head back. He appears to have a long, in-depth struggle with himself before exhaling loudly. His head levels out.
Humph.I think we dodged that knife—for now.
His gaze drops to my mess on the floor. “You took our sheet. Feeling sentimental?”
Yes. Horribly.“It was my bag.” I knot the ends and sling it over my shoulder.
Griffin takes the bundle from me, kissing my temple. “Clever, Cat. Always improvising.”
“Improvise and survive!” I chant.
He chuckles. “That doesn’t rhyme.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
Griffin hits me with his hard stare. “You’re arguing again.”
“That’s because I’m right.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Who’s arguing now?”
“Cat…”
I smile innocently. It’s hard not to laugh. “Yes, Your Growliness?”
He growls.
I tap my chin, thinking up a rhyme he’s sure to like. “There once was a Sintan warlord, who overcame an incredible horde. Even so, he’d be easy to mock, except he has this really huge co—”
Griffin plants his hand over my mouth, his eyes narrowing.
“What? It rhymes,” I say, my voice muffled beneath his fingers.
“So dospankandthank.”
I bite his hand, he smacks my bottom, and I shriek as he flops me over his shoulder along with my makeshift bag. With me gripping his waist and laughing, Griffin strides back to the castle, his head held high like the triumphant conqueror he is.
CHAPTER 5
JOCASTA LOOKS AROUND THE ROOM, HER BLUE EYESnarrowed and her lips pursed. “You need a new bed.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Last night, Griffin and I slept on the thick sheepskin rug in front of the unlit hearth—if sleeping is what you can call what we did for most of the night.
Griffin’s sister snorts. “I wish I could take a sword and beat the stuffing out of something when I’m upset.”
“You can. Here.” I hand her my sword. It’s short, about the length of a man’s arm. The hilt fits my grip perfectly, and the rounded guard is engraved with a decorative pattern of intertwining laurel leaves. I’m thinking about naming it. Swords need names. “I recommend the bed, but I’m not particularly attached to that table over there.”
Jocasta glances at the upturned table with its irreparably cracked central board. Her dark hair reflects the morning sunbeams streaming through the open window as she approaches what’s left of the bed and then gives the ruined mattress a good whack. Her whole body jars from the impact. She hauls the sword up again and then thumps it back down harder. This time, the blade sticks in the splintered bed frame. By the time she wrestles it out of the wood, she’s panting and half her curls have slipped from their pins.
She shoves her almost blue-black hair out of her face. “That was annoying.”
