Page 35 of The Rook

“Out of my chair,” his sister demanded.

“My lady,” he said sarcastically, standing. Nyx flopped into his chair. “Make yourself at home.” He let out a huff of indignation, then moved over to the doorway where Briggs hovered.

“Tempest,” Nyx said warmly. “It is great to see you. You were not hurt on the road, were you?”

She shook her head. “Brine and Swiftly weren’t so fortunate, though.”

Nyx laughed lightly. “They will be fine. I’ve tended to their wounds myself. How have you been doing?”

“Oh, same old, same old. Trying not to get caught for being a traitor and being hanged. The usual.”

Pyre rolled his eyes and left the two females in his study. Briggs followed him and closed the door behind them. Pyre moved down the hallway, his friend shadowing every step.

“Any word of anyone following Tempest here?”

Briggs bent low to reply. “Brine kept everyone off their trail. It’s clear Destin sent other Hounds after Tempest. Presumably to infiltrate your court.”

Pyre let out an arrogant grunt. “They could try, for sure. Oh, they could try.”

They would fail. He’d make sure of it.

FIFTEEN

Tempest

Tempest was ashamed to admit that it was too easy to fall into her new routine. Time flew by as days turned to weeks. She’d always been a creature of habit, after all; her entire life with the Hounds had been strictly regimented. A good routine made her feel grounded.

She spent much of each morning training. In the afternoons, Nyx always had something to occupy her time, followed by a friendly sparring session. The female shifter wasfast. Tempest had more bruises from their matches than she’d acquired in a long time, but it was worth it. She’d become faster out of necessity. It also kept her too exhausted and preoccupied to think of much else.

When dinner rolled around, it was a lesson in endurance. Tempest had always been an outsider, but her uncles had made sure to make her feel at home. The den of deceit—the name she’d given the Jester’s mountain castle—was not kind tostrangers. Each evening, it was made abundantly clear that she was notoneof them. Normally, baleful glances and malicious whispers didn’t bother her. She’d dealt with them her whole life at the king’s court, but this was different. In the king’s court, Tempest was an oddity. Here, she was the enemy.

She’d taken to covering her hair with a hood because it attracted too much attention and marked her for what she was: a Hound. Tempest wanted to dye it, but Nyx wouldn’t hear of it. Though Nyx didn’t saywhy, Tempest had more than a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the Jester wanting to show off the traitorous Hound at his side. Every crook and degenerate from leagues away who’d come to stay in the mountains seemed to want to look upon the Jester’strophy. It rankled her, but she shoved it down. She had a job to do, and information wouldn’t be gained if she kept to herself or allowed the suspicious lot to push her out. And they were right to be wary of her. When she discovered all the parts of the truth, she was coming for them. At least, the ones who were the worst of the criminals.

Tempest pulled the linen from her cracked knuckles and dropped to the sparring mat, the lantern light flickering. She rolled her neck and savored the quiet. Nyx hadn’t been the only one she’d been training with. Tempest would be the first to admit, it was brutal. It made sparring with the Hounds seem like mere warm-up sessions by comparison. Everyone wanted a go at the Hound. There was a lot of bad blood between the Hounds and those of Talagan descent.

During the first two weeks, she thought she might die, but she was too stubborn to give up. No matter how hard she fought against Pyre or Mal or Brine, Tempest lost four out of five rounds. Luck only granted her a win. It wasn’t skill; it wassheer willpower not to lose and chance, no matter how much they beat her. Tempestalwaysgot up, even when they told her to stay down. Nothing was ever gained by admitting defeat, or so Maxim said.

Maxim.

Her heart clenched, and she leaned her head against the cold, stone wall, closing her eyes against the traitorous tears that fought to escape. She missed her family. And while she thrived on confrontation, Tempest longed for a safe place just to be herself, to feel like she mattered. Like she had worth. The shifters made her feel like a child all over again—the pitiful female novice taken in by grown men, who indulged their amusement by giving her a chance to fight them. Her fingers curled into fists.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not a child. Take what they dole out and learn from it.

She was getting better, or so Brine told her.

A small smile lifted her lips. That was an unexpected turn of events.

Apparently, their journey had bonded them. Brine’s temperament and attitude had changed toward her since their arrival at the den of deceit. No longer was the wolf shifter directly hostile or snippy just for the sake of it. Well, he was still as prickly and gruff as ever, but he wasn’t outright mean anymore. He’d become decidedly neutral, and in turn, he’d become one of her favorite sparring partners. She had studied his aggressive, direct form of attacking, and had then quickly learned how to battle against it. Their matches always left her heaving and covered in sweat, but in a satisfied way. What was even more satisfying was when she’d surprise the wolf, and he’d give an itty-bitty smile. It was like winning a bag full of gold.

Battling Mal, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

From the very beginning, she had not wanted to fight him at all. She’d seen him in the ring with massive shifters, and he was ruthless. He took down every single man, no matter how far he had to go. He’d almost killed two men and didn’t even blink an eye. In addition to his disturbing actions and his need to win, he hated her. Tempest had no clue what she’d done to gain such malice or attention from the man, but it was a problem, especially when he challenged her in the ring. Her uncles had taught her to be wise and humble. She knew she couldn’t beat him. But Mal had insisted, goaded, and embarrassed her until she had no choice but to accept his challenge.

Burn her pride.

In battle, he was just as arrogant as Pyre, but far more devious and cutthroat. He didn’t pull his punches. The moment her guard dropped even the slightest always meant pain.

Now, Tempest lifted her shirt and stared at the purple bruise spanning her navel. Just today he’d jammed the hilt of a dagger into her stomach so forcefully that she’d puked and then wheezed for five minutes. She dropped her shirt and shook her head. Dima would call her an idiot for going back for more. Tempest huffed. Even if it killed her, she would best the pompous deviant one way or another.

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