Page 60 of Bloodguard

“Do you think he’ll listen to you?” Her eyelashes bat as she looks up at Soro. “Perhaps your desires are best made known through his son?”

Aisling is well aware that I have more clout than Soro with Vitor. I should warn her she’s feeding an already bloated ego.

Soro preens. “Aisling does have a point, Maeve.”

“Does she?” I ask.

He chuckles, barely acknowledging Aisling even as he speaks of her. “Aisling has many skills.” He shrugs. “Perhaps they can be of value to us.”

“Us?” I ask. Hell would sprout daisies and sunshine before I’d ever consider Aisling an ally. The sweet talk is as phony as she is cruel. As children, she and her friends would bully Giselle, targeting her because she was small and weak and couldn’t fight back. I could, and I did. That is, until Aisling’s magic sparked to life. The woman is rotten all the way through. “There is nous, Soro,” I say. “Not with you, and definitely not with Aisling.”

Swirls of shimmering magic ribbon up her bare arms as she glances down at the way I thrum the hilt of my sword

Aisling doesn’t like me seeing right through her. Neither does Soro.

“Go,” he says.

I think he means me until Aisling’s pinched features jerk in Soro’s direction. “You need me,” she presses.

“Perhaps.” He nods thoughtfully. “But for now, Maeve and I have business to attend to.”

Aisling rights herself, her chin up and her hips swaying as she strolls past me as if it’s her decision to leave. Soro watches her exit, turning only when she shuts the door tightly behind her. He’s taken many lovers over the years, but it appears Aisling’s charm might have at last claimed whatever shriveled-up sliver of a heart he has to give.

Soro moves smoothly across the room and to that gaudy chair Vitor swears he’ll never part with. It was supposedly a gift from my grandmother.

The back and seat are heavily cushioned and covered in rich, brown leather, the frame and arms real gold. The arms stretch upward at an angle to form a phoenix taking off into the heavens on each side.

Soro strokes the head of one phoenix before leisurely dragging his hand down the length of a body resembling a peacock, which once soared over all of Old Erth.

“Vitor doesn’t respect you,” he says. Although directing his words at me, he fixes his attention on the lead windows behind Vitor’s desk. Each panel of stained glass tells the story of the phoenix. It starts with her as a hatchling breaking free from that single egg, as legend has it. Her body grows in each proceeding pane until her fiery feathers lengthen enough to take to the sky. The panels that follow reflect her fall from grace and her ultimate death. She plummets farther and farther yet. The last panel shows her sprawled across the field, a bloody sword beside her broken form. What a terrible fate for a being once regarded as a god.

“And as you know, he doesn’t respect me,” Soro continues.

I cross my arms. Soro and I once played together. I have memories of us reaching for each other’s hands as his mother held him and Papa held me. Soro’s mother tucked him against her hip, tickling his belly and making him laugh as he stretched out his hand, wanting to link our fingers. We were maybe three or four years old at the time. It’s one of my earliest memories.

My “mother” was a concubine from a distant royal house contracted for the sake of conceiving me. There was no tickling or shows of affection. There was simply a role to play and a handsome sum to play it. As soon as I was weaned, she returned to her homeland and has not set foot in Arrow since—though she was, before my grandmother’s death, always welcomed. There was a brief point in my childhood in which this arrangement bothered me, but I see now how lucky I am to have two loving parents. After Soro’s human mother succumbed to illness, my former friend had none.

“I don’t like the way Vitor dismisses you,” I admit, remembering the boy who laughed with pure glee.

Soro caresses the chair’s sculpted phoenix arm as if it is alive. It’s not perverse, but I still find it odd. The way his hand strokes along the phoenix’s back. She’s not real, but she’s disturbingly real to him. My fingers drag along the scars on my neck as I push the strands that have escaped my braid behind my ear. “I think you should talk to Vitor alone. Explain how his snub affects you.”

Soro laughs, the diamonds and gems sewn into his long chestnut braids gently tapping the plush leather cushion along his back. Amusement tugs the corners of his mouth, revealing a hint of that little boy who adored his mother and used to be my friend. But as quickly as that glimpse arrives, it fades in a way that leaves me chilled. “You don’t think I’ve tried?” His expression twists with rage. “Long before Mother passed, I asked—no, Ibegged—for him to hear me. But Vitor always had someone smarter and moreexperiencedto listen to. Does that sound about right, Maeve?”

I notice the way Soro refers to his father as Vitor these days. It’s an intentional effort to sever their connection.

“Why aren’tweworking together?” he asks. “We’re just whispers in the wind alone. Wouldn’t you rather be a shout that echoes from atop a mountain for everyone in Old Erth to hear,toheed?”

“I’ve no interest in a dictatorship,” I say. “My goal is to do right by Papa and Arrow.”

He pushes away from the awful chair, stalking toward me, all but snarling as he readies to pounce.

I hold my ground. There’s an inch at best between us as we meet face to face. “Work with me. Marry me. And let’s show the High Lord who is really in control.”

Dear sun above, he means it.

“And what will I get?” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. I will never marry him, but I need to know what he plans.

Soro lifts his hand, watching me as he strokes the skin just below my ear that bears the marks from that fire. “What do you want?” he asks, his eyebrows arched. “Besides freeing Andres?”

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