“Same as you, looks like.” Rakos shades his eyes with his hand to look up at her. “Nice to see you, neighbor.”
“Fuck your nice,” Petunia snaps. “You’re lucky my cups fixed themselves by the end of the night, or I’d sell you to a blood mage to make back the losses.”
“Like you could catch me,” Rakos retorts.
They trade barbs back and forth, sounding more cheerful the more dire the threats and insults get, while Bellamy stays quiet. One detail still bothers him from the festival.
How exactly did Rakos cheat Petunia?
The cup spells clearly dimmed as Rakos spoke with her. But there was no sign of counterspell or distraction or anything other explanation Bellamy can think of. Is Rakos hiding magical talent too?
Rakos and Petunia’s argument continues until the wagon shakes with someone pounding on the inner wall. A man calls out, “Can you wait till noon to make friends, lady? Some of us work nights!”
“You call that work, Teodor?” Petunia yells back, then points at Rakos with a glare. “Hands off my cups, soldier, you hear me?”
Rakos freezes, then relaxes so quickly Bellamy might have imagined the brief tension. “Not a soldier. Just a farmer.” He claps Bellamy on the shoulder. “Come on, our wagon’s this way. I think—fuck.”
Bellamy staggers as Rakos drags him between a wagon and a wall. Before they round the corner, he catches a glimpse of a thin man with pale blue hair.
“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asks.
“Nothing.” Rakos loosens his grip on Bellamy’s shoulder. “Okay, fine, stop glaring. Did you see the guy with blue hair? I cheated him at cards the other day. Stay away from him.”
Bellamy stares. “We’ve barely been in Orthin a week. How have you made so many enemies?”
“Talent.”
Rakos’s hand slides down Bellamy’s spine, settling in the small of his back, and Bellamy is suddenly aware of how close they are. The heat and smell, the casual touch—does Rakos have any idea what he’s doing to Bellamy?
Does he have any idea how unbalanced Bellamy feels when he pulls away?
Rakos peers around the wagon. “Coast is clear.”
Bellamy barely remembers what they were hiding from. Something crinkles behind him—and Rakos’s gaze flicks over his shoulder.
Hardens, like cold amethyst.
Bellamy barely catches the word “wanted” on the pinned-up piece of paper before Rakos rips it from the wall. All the good humor is gone from Rakos’s face, like the last two weeks never happened. Like Rakos is still the desperate, instinct-driven predator Bellamy first unchained in the waystation dungeon.
“What is that?” Bellamy asks.
Rakos crumples the paper in his hand. “Nothing. Look.” He grimaces. “There are too many people around. I’ll rejoin you after the first checkpoint.”
“What?” Bellamy grabs Rakos’s sleeve. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’ll be back in two hours. Maybe three.” Rakos grins. “Sit with Petunia.”
“I don’t understand.” More questions and protests pile up in the back of Bellamy’s throat. A feeling as raw and intense as that kiss behind the festival, without any of the warmth.
“You don’t have to understand,” Rakos says. “Just trust me, okay? If I was going to leave you, I’d say so. If I say I’m coming back, I’m coming back.”
Bellamy’s lips tighten. He wants to protest. Argue. But the caravan master is shouting orders up ahead, and the front wagons are rumbling away. Bellamy’s running out of time, and he doesn’t trust Rakos—but he wants to.
He sticks out his hand. “Fine. But hand me your coin purse.”
“What?”
Bellamy lifts his chin. “I want collateral.”
