Page 36 of Traitor Son

In bed, he rested and then had her again, slower. He had wanted her too badly to prolong the first time, and their wedding night had been such a revelation, all he could do was drown himself in her body. Now he wanted to experiment.

He wanted to learn every inch of her. Her body fascinated him, her long, narrow waist, her slender legs, her sleek curving thighs. He wanted to taste every inch of her velvety skin, and lap at her round breasts. And he was wild to feel her mouth on him, though her shy kisses and caresses roused him so unbearably, he couldn’t endure it long before he wanted back inside her, and streaked her thighs white with his seed.

It was dangerous, letting someone get close enough to touch him. When she looked at him with those large, solemn eyes, suddenly his heart was beating so fast. The merest brush of her hands made him shiver, as if he had been starving to be touched all these years and never known it.

But he made himself stop early, nevertheless. He wouldn’t repeat the mistakes he had made on their wedding night, and it was strangely satisfying just to hold her, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, her silky hair streaming off the side of the bed in the river. Long after he should have sought his own bed, Remin lay looking at her sleeping face, soft and curving as a flower. Inexperienced as he was with women, he’d never thought about why maidens were said to beblooming.Nothing bloomed, in the places he had been. But his wife did. She was so fresh and so lovely, he hardly knew what to do with her.

What if she wasn’t his enemy? It was far more likely that she was exactly what she seemed to be: a timid girl who had grown up a prisoner, too frightened to speak up for herself but brave enough to raise her voice for a friend. He liked that about her, very much. As a matter of fact, he had enjoyed almost every moment he had spent with her for days now. She was so smart, and funny, when she forgot to be shy.

He wanted her to stop being shy with him.

Embracing the soft, warm bundle in his arms, Remin dozed, breathing her sweet scent.

Only a whisper of a sound alerted him. A little past midnight, a shadow eeled its way through the window, cloth rasping against the windowsill, and Remin’s sharp eyes saw the darker shape in the shadows of the bedroom.

It was like a slap of icy air in his face. His sword was by the fire, but he was instantly so angry, he didn’t need it. Rising grimly from the bed, he stalked forward and smashed his arm into the tall wooden poster at the end, snapping it off. Ophele woke with a cry.

“Stay under the covers, wife,” he ordered without looking back. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I give you leave.”

Reversing the broken poster in his hand, he advanced, angling to put a small worktable between himself and the assassin. There was the gleam of a blade in their hand, a shortsword, but there were many other, fouler means of murder. He watched the blade, but he also watched the assassin’s other hand, and the hooded face. There was one assassin in the Masaron Basin that had actuallyspatpoison at him, like a frilled lizard, and only missed his eyes by chance.

“Miche! Tounot!” he bellowed. One of them should be at his door. “Get someone outside!”

The assassin’s free hand shoved inside their robes and Remin exploded into motion, kicking the edge of the worktable up and twisting his body behind it. Several sharp metal objects thudded into it as he bulled forward, intending to slam the bastard between the table and the wall, but even if the assassin hadn’t expected to find an awake and furious Remin Grimjaw, they were still quick to fling themselves right back out the window. Swearing, Remin thrust the table aside and grabbed for their hood.

It tore away, revealing short blond hair, and he whipped the bedpost at it as a parting shot. He couldn’t tell if it landed. The assassin slid downthe slate tiled roof and over the side like there weren’t two stories between them and the alley below.

Yanking the shutters closed and noting the broken lock on them, Remin went for his pants. He hated having to face assassins when he was naked.

“Y-Your Grace?” the princess asked from the bed, her voice quivering.

“You can look,” he said shortly. “He’s gone.”

“Who—what…” She yanked the bedcovers up to her neck as Miche burst into the room, followed by Justenin.

“I guess someone decided to try their luck,” Miche said, grim. “Tounot and Ortaire went out the window as soon as you yelled, we’ll know in a minute.”

“I almost got a hand on him,” Remin replied, tossing him the assassin’s hood. Miche lit a lamp and they inspected Remin’s impromptu shield. Three short throwing knives were sunk into the worktable, sharp silver steel with black edges on the blades. All of them knew better than to touch it. The black edge was likely poison.

He glanced at the terrified girl in the bed, pressed against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chin and one hand covering her mouth. Was she really frightened? Had she known? Could there have been some signal passed between her and one of the people she had spoken with that day, the glassblower, the lady at the pastry shop, the seamstress, the tinker? How had the assassin come unerringly to this room, when Remin ought to have been in another?

Had she pretended to enjoy his affections to keep him here, long enough for the assassin to attempt his task?

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to this, Princess,” he said coldly. The thought that he might have kissed her and let her touch him and moaned his pleasure in her arms after she had arranged for his murder made him burn with hurt and humiliation. Heknewbetter, but he couldn’t help dreaming that just once, it might be otherwise. “Your father wants me dead quite badly.”

Her face went as pale as if he’d slapped her.

“Rem, maybe—” Miche began, just as another voice shouted from outside in the alley.

“Rem!” It was Tounot. “You’ll want to see this!”

“Get up and get dressed, Princess,” he ordered. “Juste, guard her. Miche, with me.”

“Oh, b-but, Your Grace—” The princess was white with terror, but he was already shrugging into his shirt as he headed for the door. “The window, w-what if—”

He didn’t hear her. He didn’t have time for her mumbling right now.

Outside in the alley behind the inn, there was a very dead assassin.

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