Page 137 of Heirs of the Cursed

Naithea didn’t answer; she didn’t know how to do so without putting them in more danger. She lowered her gaze toward her hands, those hands that didn’t feel quite like her own anymore. Nothing did.

“Did you do it again?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Because if you did, we can protect you.” Larka rested her hand on Naithea’s. “We always will.”

Her eyes filled with tears at the reassurance in her sister’s voice.

It had only been two years ago, when she was paid by two men. For one night, her body was theirs to do whatever they wanted, and she had to comply. But after they’d beaten her, tying her up to the bed, the monster inside her came out to play.

Regnera and Faithe had heard the screams and entered the room without hesitation. They’d found Naithea covered in blood and the bodies of the Camdennians drained beside her feet. To protect themselves, they should have turned her over to Madame Dimond, to the soldiers even. Yet her sisters had disposed of the bodies, throwing them into the ocean after filling their stomachs with pebbles.

“They know who I am. There’s nothing you can do to protect me.”

Jehanne frowned. “What do you mean?”

Still, it was Caisen’s eyes that widened in understanding.

“It’s you.”

Naithea nodded.

“What the hell are you talking about, Caisen?” Jehanne asked, drifting her amber eyes between her sisters. At the lack of response, she insisted, “Well?”

“I’m one of them,” Naithea admitted aloud. Doing so lifted an enormous weight from her shoulders, from her chest. “One of the Dark Twins.”

“But how . . .?”

Larka’s words were lost before she could finish the question as she noticed the burly figure of a man leaning against her bedroom wall. She took the razor she kept under her pillow and pointed it at the soldier. Leonel raised his arms to show her that he posed no threat, a smirk breaking across his face.

Naithea stopped her. “Don’t.”

“What is he doing here?”

“We can trust him.”

“How can you be so sure?” Larka spat. “He could betray you and hand you to the Crown to win the king’s favor.”

“I’ll explain everything, but we must go. Now!”

The hetairas glared at Leonel, Larka more than any of them. She’d lived long enough to know that she shouldn’t trust a man, least of all a soldier of the king.

They exchanged their nightgowns for warm garments and light bags. They didn’t know how long they would be gone or to where. But they had a blind faith in Naithea, who would protect them from any evil in Laivalon.

She’d protect them, even from herself

Leonel Ramsdean was a traitor to the Crown. If his comrades discovered that he’d helped the cursed princess, they wouldn’t grant him such a lenient end as the gallows. They would burn him alive until his skin fell off and his flesh crackled in the flames, his screams etching in the wind for the rest of eternity.

Yet, he didn’t have any regrets.

He had helped each of the hetairas to descend through one of the windows of Naithea’s old room. They were much closer to the ground than before, so Leonel waited in the desolate, dark street for each of them to plop down for him to catch them.

Some of them hesitated, cursing under their breath, but obeyed when he counted to three. It was Larka, beautiful and proud, the only one who didn’t close her eyes as the air enveloped her, as if she were at ease with the sensation of falling that might bring about her death. Her body molded into Leonel’sarms and, despite the cold, her body against his provided a sudden rush of warmth. But Larka shot him a glare before jumping to the ground with nothing more than silent gratitude.

Then, they started running.

They strove to make as little noise as possible, for the presence of eleven women might attract more stares than they wished. If anyone reported seeing them, they wouldn’t make it in time. Or worse, the soldiers would come for Naithea.

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