Page 22 of Scars and Crowns

"And don't jump." Sara huffs and I almost chuckle at how her cheeks puff up.

Her footsteps continue down the corridor.

I stay exactly where I am, holding my breath like a complete fool until the sound fades into the distance.

Only then do I let myself relax.

Well done, Yuvaan.

Thirty years old. Maharaja of Devgarh. Successfully hid from one woman carrying two empty water bottles. A remarkable achievement.

I shake my head at myself, somewhere between embarrassed and amused.

Maybe I should leave before I do something even more ridiculous. Just as I shift my weight to step out something taps gently against my thigh.

Once.

Deliberately.

I freeze.

Slowly . . . Very slowly . . . I lower my gaze, only to find a pair of enormous dark brown eyes staring straight back at me.

Sara.

She's standing barely a foot away, tiny hands planted firmly on her hips, looking up at me with the kind of deep suspicion usually reserved for cartoon villains and adults who claim vegetables taste good.

Her tiny eyebrows are pulled together in concentration. She's studying me. Properly studying me. For one completely disorienting moment time folds in on itself. Because I've seen this expression before.

Many years ago.

On another child.

Standing on the stairs with scraped knees, tangled hair, and absolutely no respect for authority. "Pretty Boy," she'd demanded, hands on her hips exactly like this, "why are you hiding from your tutor instead of studying?"

The memory hits me so suddenly that my chest tightens. It's in the eyes.

Dark.

Quick.

Far too observant for someone so young.

And the mouth . . . Already pursed into a tiny line, as though she's quietly deciding whether I'm trustworthy. Or whether I deserve to be interrogated first.

I lower myself into a crouch until we're almost eye level, trying very hard to arrange my face into something that doesn't look like I've just been caught doing exactly what I wasn't supposed to.

"Mister."

The sheer authority packed into that one word almost makes me smile.

"Do you know it's a bad habit to evesdop?"

I bite the inside of my cheek before the laugh can escape. The word is completely wrong. The confidence with which she says it is completely right. Warmth spreads through my chest so suddenly that it catches me off guard.

"I do know," I reply, keeping my expression as solemn as I can manage. "And you're absolutely right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."