She lifted his hand, palm up, and opened her other hand above it. Hard, cold metal filled his palm. A ring, a sapphire, a few pearls, small gold coins.
She gently closed his fingers over the small treasure. Her escape plan. Fuck.
Then she took a small step back. She took another step back as her face settled into a polite, emotionless mask—the one she’d worn when they first met. All princess. Queen, now.
He remembered believing that disdainful look. Believing that she was a spoilt, coddled prima donna. But he knew better now. He knew that it was her protection—the only one she had had for so many years—but even that was failing her. A slow tear tracked down her face. She ignored it. Or maybe she hadn’t noticed.
In all the time they’d spent together, she had never, ever cried. Until now.
She tipped her chin up and waved her hand. “You’re released from service, Sergeant. Commander Tristan can see to your discharge. Go with the gods.”
And then she turned and walked away.
To anyone else, it might have seemed the regal walk of a queen, but he knew the truth. There was nothing regal in those slow, considered movements. They were the aching steps of someone who was pouring every molecule of concentration into putting one foot in front of the other and not falling to the ground.
You did that.
His hands throbbed, his fists were clenched so tightly, and he slowly forced them open. They hurt like hell.
He looked down to see blood streaking his palms. What? He turned his hands over in shock. He had claws. Long, sharp fucking claws.
“Are you happy now?” The voice was Tristan’s, but it sounded just like his beast.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dornar tiedthe reins of the horse he’d stolen to the broken wood of the gallows platform, pulling the stinking woolen cloak more closely over his head.
Fucking gods-forsaken farms. The thick, shambling mare and the onion-reeking woolen cloak scratching his skin and no doubt rife with lice were exactly what he had left behind.
Around him there was a curious sense of celebration, Queen Lucilla’s name on everyone’s lips. Most with skepticism and rough humor, but more than a few with the beginnings of hope.
They didn’t trust her, not yet, but they liked her. And they trusted the Supreme Justice standing behind her. Exactly where Dornar should have been.
He sidled up to a barrel fire and warmed his hands, listening to the flow of speculation around him. A rumor was spreading that she had dismissed her entire council and was, even now, clearing out the Blues.
If he wasn’t so fucking angry, he would have been impressed. He honestly hadn’t thought she had it in her.
He slowed his breathing and calmed himself. It was too late to try to control her now; she was out of his grasp. What he needed was wealth, a lot of it, and small enough to carry. The kind of wealth that she would be able to access in the treasury.
And then he would find Mathos. Spend some time explaining exactly how he felt about their ongoing acquaintance. Starting with his other shoulder. And finishing with sharing the details of what he’d done with Lucilla. He’d seen how Mathos looked at her, killing her would hurt him. A lot.
Dornar slipped away from the fire and through the crowds toward the rough wall leading up to Court Gate. It was heavily guarded, with both cavalry Black Guards and Nephilim, each watching the other with suspicion. No entry there.
He walked slowly down the long wall until he found a deeper indentation in the stone. Above him he could hear the guards calling to each other, whistling out their positions. There seemed more of them than when he had created their schedule, but there were still breaks in their perimeter. Moments when the stretch of wall above him was empty. He silently removed his cloak, dropping it into the darkness.
Boots clumped past on the new fortifications, and then a second set close behind. As soon as they passed, he levered himself up the stone, hauling and pulling, digging his fingers into the tiny cracks between the stones as he quickly scaled the wall and heaved himself over the crenelations onto the narrow walkway. Without pausing, he slipped across and over the other side, hanging for just a moment and then letting go, to drop into the deep black water.
The water closed over his head in a freezing, burning wave, and he kicked upward. It took everything he had not to gasp as he breached the surface and turned to cling to the slimy rocks of the outer wall.
“What was that?”
“What?” Deep voices convened along the walkway.
“Something splashed.”
“Here, pass me the torch.”
Light flickered along the inky water, playing over the rocks and even the sides of the wall. Dornar froze, gripping the base of the wall, almost entirely submerged.
