He didn’t release her hands. “No, there was a middleman.Woman. The 18th’s mole didn’t come.”
“What? But the notes said…” She wiggled slightly to free her hands, feeling trapped.
His voice sharpened. “It was a waste. Well, perhaps not entirely. I got to send a message to your old clan.”
A message in the form of a killed informant, at least in his eyes. Hopefully, that would be enough for him, for now at least.
“I failed you, Karvek,” she said quickly, dropping her head.
Finally, he released her, not saying anything.
“What can I do? How can I fix it?” she asked desperately.
“Are you sure Pyetar isn’t the mole?”
“I can’t rule him out completely, but I don’t think so.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her if he ended up being the mole.
“Did you properly motivate him to tell you the truth?” His finger trailed over her bottom lip, and she knew what he meant.
She saw a hint of his possessiveness, his jealousy.
“I let him think it might happen, but no. I couldn’t bear to let anyone else touch me.”
“Good.” He gripped her chin, a violent look overtaking his face. “I don’t want my brother touching what’s mine.”
She would never belong to him.
“I have a few ideas to root out the mole. I will let you know when I have need of you.” One of his brows slowly rose. “But there is a way you can make it up to me.”
“Anything.”
His hands ran up her arms, over her shoulders, and she immediately regretted her words.
Karvek pushed her to her knees.
Anything to save the Kleesolds, she reminded herself.
If everything went according to plan, Karvek would never touch her again.
Iryana had worried she’d be trapped in that study for hours, but Karvek had too much work to do and after he was satisfied, had sent her on her way.
It had been so hard to hide her relief.
She tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about how much worse it could have been. She’d have done whatever he asked, faked as much enthusiasm as she could, but he hadn’t even touched her. Not in a way that would have haunted her.
Still, she’d traded a few coins for a large pour of vodka in the hall. Had rinsed her mouth out, spitting it out along the barracks walls, and then downed the rest. It helped bolster her climb up the barracks stairs.
Iryana knocked as she pushed open the door to her and Vaneshta’s room. She was a mess of anxiety, her hands a sweaty mess she tried to hide in two fists.
Vaneshta was hunched over the small table in the middle, wiping down her training sword with a spoon dangling out of her mouth.
Her eyes whipped up to see Iryana, and she yanked the spoon out of her mouth, dropping it with a clink back into the bowl of porridge on the table. Heart pounding, Iryana slipped in and leaned against the door to force it closed.
“Well, well, well,” Vaneshta grumbled.
“I am sorry I left you during that mission.”
Vaneshta watched her, brow raised. Waiting.
