Her blue eyes bored into him, as if trying to peel back layers he wasn’t even sure he had. She always had a way of doing that.
“You don’t talk about your mother because you’re ashamed about who she was.”
Something twisted, low and deep in his gut. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow. “Going for the killing blow first, I see.”
She didn’t answer. Only lifted a brow, waiting.
He wanted to deny it. Wanted to tip that flagon of wine up to her and tell her to drink. To laugh off her question and forget she ever asked it.
But that wasn’t the game. While he would cheat with anyone else, he couldn’t bring himself to cheat with her.
He raised the flagon to his lips, taking a deep pull. Let the wine wash away the burning sting of his shame.
When he lowered it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he found her watching him with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. “I didn’t think you’d actually admit that.”
He gave her a tight, grim smile. “That’s the game, little wolf. Honesty. Even if it means being honest with yourself.”
She was silent for a beat. “Who she was ended up making you an orphan,” she murmured finally. “It’s only natural to feel resentment.”
“I don’t resent her.” Quentin pushed a hand through his hair. “My memories of her are hazy, but they were good. She was a good mother to me and was only trying to survive. But…” He sighed. “But I can’t fucking handle the pity. So, I don’t talk about her, because when I do, people get soft and weird, and there’s nothing that I hate more than being treated like I’m made of glass.”
He declined to mention that Mariah hadn’t when he’d told her. And neither had Delaynie.
“That doesn’t mean you’re ashamed.”
He shook his head, red hair brushing across his forehead. “I don’t see the difference.” He forced a grin. “Enough of that. It’s my turn.”
Curiosity danced in her eyes, but she nodded and leaned back on her hands. He watched her, his gaze skimming across her pink-tinged cheeks and down the smooth, pale column of her throat.
To the rise and fall of her chest, the tightly drawn strings revealing the barest hint of her cleavage. His eyes snapped up.
“You think Mariah only appointed you to her court out of duty and are still trying to understand what value you offer her.”
He saw his words slam into her. Like a punch or a slap across the cheek. He hated doing it, but he’d seen it on her. Not justduring this trip; before, during court meetings. When everyone had things to say and Delaynie contributed what she could but often chose to remain silent. Mariah had Ciana as a best friend. But Delaynie?
She’d only ever had herself.
Slowly, her movements uncharacteristically jilted, Delaynie grabbed the flagon from Quentin and downed a deep gulp. So much that a small bead of purple red slipped from the corner of her mouth, and when she dropped the flagon, her tongue had to dart out quickly to catch it before it dribbled down her chin.
Quentin swallowed. The wine was already starting to settle into his blood, heating him as much as the fire warmed their skin.
He worried he’d be thinking about that tongue for alongtime.
Delaynie handed the flagon back to him. He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? I don’t get any more confirmation?”
She shook her head, not meeting his stare.
“Hey,” he said, brushing his fingers over her knee. Her gaze yanked to his, eyes wide. “You are valued. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Besides,” he said, grinning, “I think we both know that Mariah is the last person on the continent to do something out ofduty.”
Delaynie held his stare, lips parted. Her gaze flashed down, rosy blush staining higher across her cheeks.
To where his hand still rested on her thigh. He hadn’t even realized it, like his fingers had moved entirely of their own accord.
He pulled his hand back, clearing his throat. “Your turn?”
Delaynie blinked, as if pulling herself from a daze. “Right.” She was silent for a moment, before turning to him with a half-grin.
The hair at the nape of his neck prickled at her smile.
