“Nikolach is a brainless thug. It would never occur to him, without outside influence,” Yeshar’s eyes narrowed, “to use what he knows about me to his advantage.”
My stomach sank. “People change. The Reformatory changes everyone.”
“Swear it,” Yeshar said, picking his dagger up from beside the mayapa core and extending the handle to me.
This was another test, and one I couldn’t fail. Without hesitating, I took the dagger and sliced along the tip of my forefinger. Emotions weren’t the only thing duller with nectar coursing through me, pain’s bite was weaker. Blood slid down my finger, my engagement ring glinting in the dull light, mocking me as I held the hand up. “Devourer return me to the Great Tide if I’m lying.”
Devourer, forgive me. I’m lying.
Before I could react, Yeshar grabbed my finger and squeezed it tight in his grip. I winced. “Again,” he ordered.
“I swear it on the Devourer,” I tried not to flinch away from the pain radiating down my knuckle.
Instead of releasing my hand, he pulled it toward him, laying it flat, face up on the table and pinning it with his other wrist.
It took my sweetstalk-addled mind precious seconds to catch up to what was happening. My frantic gaze darted to Diego’s missing fingers. There was a clean cut across them, no welt indicative of miasma burn.
No.
I tugged, trying to free my hand from Yeshar’s hold as panic set in. Pressure compressed me inwards from all angles, like I'd swum too deep into Lake Mirae. I couldn’t pull in enough air.
Yeshar reached out with his other hand for something near me.
The dagger.
My heartbeat flailed against my ribs. Diego’s bored expression didn’t flicker as he watched Yeshar subdue me, while he indulged in another glass of nectar.
No, no, no!
Docksider’s other patrons were cheering behind me, loud and violent. Bloodthirsty.
Yeshar’s hand passed the dagger, instead picking up the pitcher of sweetstalk nectar. He tipped it over my hand and a small noise of pain escaped me at the sudden burning sting. “A bit of nectar keeps us honest, doesn’t it?”
He’s unhinged.
My breathing was unsteady, heartbeat racing.
I waited until he released my wrist before curling my arm back toward myself, cradling my hand to my chest. A sick shudder of revulsion went through me. “Yeah, honest,” I finally said. My voice sounded too thin and too high. Sweat dampened my hairline.
Another roar of noise went up from the fighting ring. Dazed, I realized they weren’t cheering for Yeshar to cut off my fingers, one of the combatants had won. Eager for a distraction, I turned to see the victor.
Thick dark Skinscript curved up both of his muscular arms, raised in victory. Another Voyager. The curving edges jutted out above his neckline, all whirls and symbols that I didn't recognize. I had never seen anyone with so much Skinscript on their body, he had more than four times as much as Diego. It was exotic, and given the quantity on him, he had to be powerful.
His dark skin was slick with sweat as he scanned the room with even darker eyes. He turned toward me and my breathing tripped over itself.
He was devastatingly handsome, painted in hard-lines and strong edges. His eyes reminded me of the ominous shapesthat moved under the miasma, deep and treacherous. Forcing myself to blink, or at least breathe, was impossible; I was frozen. His gaze dropped in a slow dip as he took me in. The heat of it traveled over me like a literal touch.
His presence had a savage magnitude to it, an almost magnetic wildness. Maybe it was the influence of everyone cheering around him, or my inebriation.
My pain and fear was a distant afterthought. Some primitive switch in my brain had shifted from off to on.
My heart was stuttering from just looking at him. Alarm bells were going off in my head. This man was a threat with a capital T. This wasn’t a safe place to be showing any reaction, and I was definitely reacting. Blowing out the air I'd been holding, I took a deep calming breath and turned back to face Yeshar.
The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds.
Yeshar’s scowl had shifted to a predator’s focus. I wrestled my expression back to carefully neutral. Maybe he hadn’t noticed my reaction to the fighter.
Yeshar took a long drag from his cup. “You’ll be close. To me if you qualify after the Mistrun, or to Nikolach if you don’t.” That was a chillingly accurate reality. Tearing my stare away from the cup, I studied the weeping wound on my finger, feigning boredom. “I prefer to keep an eye on interesting developments,” he added.
