I don’t spare a glance for the painting.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
FuckingSura.
On the way back to our room, she’d emerged into the hallway, linked her arm through Mayah’s, and dragged her away for some fucking dance.
It shouldn’t bother me. Itdoesn’tbother me.
I still love Mayah. I can admit it to myself now, in the solitude of my thoughts. I’m sitting here in this fucking Rebellion camp, iron on my wrists and a target on my back, because I wanted to make sure she’d be safe.
And her friends are miraculously here.
Ishouldbe relieved that she won’t be alone when I leave, but Sura’s possessiveness over my wi—fuck,Mayah—grates at me. Her seething hatred does, too, but I deserve that.
I rake a trembling hand through my hair, the iron scraping against my chafed wrists. I have to leave. My heart may still beat for her, but there’s no future for us. I’ll never trust her again.
Tairna’s words flicker through my mind.Shield.
Mayahmustbe a shield. It’s the only explanation for how she lied to me for months.
And Tairna—her work with the Rebellion is truly impressive. If the Volcans honor the alliance, she’ll be well-poised to install Mayah as queen of the entire realm.
Bitterness and anger war in my chest. After Tairna disappeared, I’d been devastated. Torn apart. Utterly alone. I’d spent every night desperately praying my mother would return. Praying that she wasn’t dead as I suspected. That I’d wake the next morning and she’d be beside my bed, a warm smile on her face.
Every. Fucking. Night. Foryears.
And Varad—he’d never been a good father. Not a good person, even. The bruises I’d seen on Tairna’s wrists and face, despite her best attempts to conceal them, were evidence enough. His treatment of nonwielders was evidence enough.
But he hadn’t murdered my mother.
I swallow past the shards of glass in my throat, eyes burning.
My mother is alive.
And I’ve never felt more alone.
I lose track of how long I sit on the small sofa. Numb.
Mayah hasn’t returned to the room.
The thought of her dancing with other men—with Tumaas—sends a violent shard of anger through me.
Maybe she won’t come back to the room tonight at all, maybe she’ll—
I’m walking out the door before I finish the thought.
It’s easy enough to find the ramshackle dance hall. The unique boom of a barrel drum and the lively whistling of wooden flutes drifts through the air. We had similar instruments on long nights spent huddled around a fire in the frigid wilderness, muscles weary after a day of shedding blood. The music of a people at war.
This beat is livelier, though, undercut with the sound of raucous laughter.
But my presence steals the joy like water steals breath.
Cold eyes pierce me from every direction. Blue, green, hazel, brown—wielders and nonwielders united in their hatred of the Dark Commander.
But then I catch sight ofher, and all coherent thought evaporates like mist. A snug blue gown hugs the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the flare of her hips. Loose waves cascade down her back, andfuck me, she’s tinted her lips with rouge. A glint of light, and my eyes fall to her collarbones where her necklace rests in the hollow between them.
Heat thrums in my veins, and I nearly take a step toward her before mastering myself. I wade through thick silence toward the makeshift bar instead, praying the barkeep doesn’t spit in my drink.
