His bare shoulders shook—laughing silently.
I opened the book and scanned the page, not really reading, my mind on other things. I mumbled, “I’ve never seen you steal before.”
King Traevon yawned so wide his jaw popped. “Do I look like an elven tree? I think not. Goodnight, my daughter.”
“Goodnight,” I responded absently.
He could twist his words even better than Grandmother Isabella could—how she was always careful with her phrasing, being a seer. It must be a family trait. I had practically perfected it as a child myself, a gift of the tongue inherited from the familial line.
I wondered if he was proud of me for it.
Or did it make him feel filthy not telling the entire truth to those he loved, as it did to me? Did he want to scrub his brain, too, so only clean truth remained? With whole truths left to be spoken?
I flipped a page blindly.
I glowered down at it, all the words jumbling together.
There would be no more reading this evening.
I tilted my head back and stared at the glowing ceiling, the hues inside the room warm and comforting, perfect for sleep. But my brutal soul mate’s food now filled my belly, and it had renewed my energy. I continued to flip pages randomly while I evaluated the stained glass. I waited until Father’s breathing evened out, and then I waited even longer, listening for the telltale sign of his deep slumber—his odd hitching breaths, as if he was stressed even in sleep, dreaming of battles and blood and duty.
It took a firm forty minutes before I heard it.
I closed the tome and slid off the bed quietly—the book coming with me. I shoved it down into my traveling bag and pulled the strap over my right shoulder, my red locks catching and yanking under the leather strap. I left my hair as it was; less movement was vital with a king older than a millennium in the room.
Father didn’t stir as I slipped out the door.
