Page 40 of The False Vow

I straightened, raising my hand—to do what with it, I knew not—but before I could move, he was surging upward, his arms locking around my waist and drawing me down. I tumbled against him, my eyes squeezing shut instinctively on impact. When I opened them again, he was on top of me, my body pressed against the mattress, my wrists trapped beneath his hands.

He breathed over me, near enough that I could make out the muss of his hair, the dilation of his pupils, blown wide by our fight. “You cannot do it,” he said around ragged breaths. “See how easily you’re beaten? If I were a silkwitch, I could cut your throat”—he released one of my wrists, drawing his pointer finger across my throat—“like that.”

I spat at him. Flinching, he let me go—though rather than the ire I’d expected my action to draw, he only chuckled, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Hate me all you like,” he drawled. “I am not leaving.”

Our gazes connected.

“Tamerlane,” Noé said softly, before I could speak again. “Stop playing games. You need help—I am offering it.” He shook his head. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I mean to be your ally?”

I didn’t answer. He was kneeling on the bed now, his knees on either side of my thighs, hemming me in. Hastily, I drew myself against the pillows, out of his reach.

“I have told you once already,” Noé went on as I retreated. “You made a deal with me, and you are a fool if you think I will allow you to exit it before you hold up your end of the bargain—via death or anything else. Do I make myself clear?”

I held his stare. There was no hint of deception in his eyes—he meant what he said, of that I was certain. I was unsure whether the realization made me feel better or worse.

“Then let Mia stay with me,” I said. My tone was sullen, my arms crossed over my knees like a child’s.

“Mia’s loyalty is untested,” Noé rebutted. “She may be bought, or she might not be—we cannot know. Not to mention, do you think the likes of Clio Lavoie, or any of the others, would hesitate to kill your maid if it meant getting to you?” He sat back on the mattress. “No, you need me here. I am the only one who can provide you with insurance—if they hurt me, they will have no one to marry when they walk down the altar.” He arched a brow. “You know I am right.”

I did, and the fact made me resent him all the more. Manon’s attack earlier had been spontaneous, a crime of opportunity. Whichever one came next, though, would likely be more intentional. I could picture it: a silkwitch using her Wit to gain access to my room while I slumbered, unable to detect her entrance, and then…

Sighing, I rose from the bed. I would give Noé the response I knew I had to, but I was too proud to do it while looking at him.

“If I allow you to sleep here,” I said, angled away, “you will not speak to me.”

I sensed him perk up. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You will not provoke me.”

“Wouldn’t dare to.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “You will not touch me.”

He met me with a smirk, sly and victorious. “Wouldn’t even think of it,” he said. “Why are you?”

I huffed, sidling back around to address him head-on. “I am merely guessing the directions your twisted mind may travel in,” I answered. “You seemed to enjoy my presence well enough during the Vainglory.” Shifting, I leaned a hip against my bedside table, stacked with letter paper and a fountain pen. “Did you think I would forget it?” I questioned him. “How constantly you sought me out? You seemed”—I bent closer, breathing my words—“desperate for me.”

Noé slouched against my headboard, as if momentarily disoriented by my approach. A second later, he collected himself.

“That’s what you call desperation?” he asked. “I suppose Lear is rather stiff-lipped, even with his lovers.” Matching my advance, he lounged closer, his head tilting up toward mine. “I was barely trying during the competition, darling. If I wanted you, Tamerlane, you would understand what it truly means to be desired—”

His voice caught as he took in the nib of my fountain pen, which I’d grabbed from the end table and was now pressing firmly against his throat. Smiling, I pushed the tip harder against his skin, eliciting a wince. “Don’t threaten me,” I mocked. “I could slit your throat like that.” I drew a line across his throat, mimicking the path he’d traced on mine, then let my arm fall. “There is more than one type of strength, darling.”

I smirked as I left the room. Eliot’s coin was still tucked beneath my waistband, bleeding its chill into me just as it had been when I’d entered, but the small surge of victory had dulled its sting.

Though I couldn’t explain it, I felt slightly more alive than I had before.

Chapter Seventeen

To his credit, Noé obeyed my rules upon returning to my room for the night. Aside from a brief exchange as we climbed into bed—he took the left side, I, the far, far right—we did not talk nor touch.

Still, I slept poorly.

I woke to the sound of rainfall tapping against my windowpanes. My bedroom was washed in blue morning light, a cozy, dry pocket amidst the drizzle which haloed it. Beside me, Noé was still slumbering. He appeared deep in repose, one arm tucked behind his pillow, the other sprawled across the center of the mattress, as if reaching toward the place where I’d lain. His mouth gapped partially open; I could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each inhale he drew, the sight oddly endearing. Elegant, even.

Reaching over, I thwacked him hard with my pillow. “Get up.”