Page 35 of The Secrets of Jane: Reborn
I don’t like those undertones.
It doesn’t take long before we reach one of the Eyeless from earlier, Rorge looking down over his large, crooked nose at the both of us.
“Watch over Jane,” Donna briskly commands, her black hair the last thing I see before she disappears around a corner. My heart races as I stand against the cold wall, Rorge’s hands crossed in front of him while I stare at the floor. The sound of all those people nearby is getting to me,my father’s people.
People that have been told I’m essential to Misery’s downfall, and that they better keep me alive or their families will die.
It’s honestly unnerving to think they would all fight over who gets to gut me first if they knew that Misery’s rebirth was entirely contingent on whether I lived or died, but that mydeathwould stop it, like snuffing out a candle.
Best part is, I don’t even knowwhy.
Donna returns when I haven’t finished considering the ramifications of it all, waving for me to follow. Inhaling deeply while aggressively rubbing my tongue on the backside of my teeth, I enter what looks like a communal space that smells like brined meat, tobacco, and wood. The textures of all the chairs are a chaotic jumble, from velvet to wood to cotton, all clearly carved by different creators.
A nod to the fact they were probably stolen.
Spotting Soren is like finding an anchor in a new harbor when I locate the behemoth resting on a bed of hay; ankles crossed as he lies there, eyes closed. I don’t wait for anyone else’s permission and strut over straight away, only to pause a few feet from him when I remember that skin shifters exist in this world—what if this is a trap? Would that even happen among my dad’s men?
No, surely not, not with the Eyeless, right?
Pale eyes flash open, and I’m not sure an imposter could quite mimic the way that gaze penetrates. “Why the hesitancy? I was enjoying your immense relief at seeing me.”
A grin spreads across my face, that man slithering right under my skin.
A scarred brow raises in consideration. He motions next to him. “Sit. I’d get up, but I was told not to move a muscle, so I’m proving a point.”
Glancing around, only for a moment, my ass clenches when there are at least three dozen eyes on us. It’s never bothered me to really have the attention of many, but knowing they all belong to the Scorpion… I swiftly find a place to sit as if crouching down will somehow hide me, some of the hay digging through my pants. “I need to get ingredients for you,” I say, never quite finding a comfortable spot. “I should probably go do that right away, actually.”
“They already gave me a tonic.”
Out of everything that just happened, that’s the one statement that cutspersonally. “Iwas supposed to make that,” I say, as if taking the tonic of someone else breached something between us. “And you know what, who are you even sitting still for, anyway?”
He finally flashes a short-lived grin. “Don’t worry, love, whoever made it means nothing to me,” he teases, which does make me grin… slightly. “And there’s an old woman walking around, sweeping up the place. She told me to cease all movement because I was getting hay all over. Then she smacked me with her broom when I tried to show her it wasn’tthatmuch.”
“What?” I ask, barely able to control my laughter, not wanting to bringmoreattention my way. “You’re clearly aZenith. Your mask is right there—why did an old lady hit you with a broom?”
“I don’t think she gives a shit who I am.” His dark lashes part to reveal the sea glass underneath. “I’m in your daddy’s world, love. The boat is already rocking, so no point in making it worse.”
I try to inconspicuously search around for a woman with a broom, needing to see what she looks like. “You have atitle.”
“This isn’t Belstead. Respect isn’t what precedes a name. And I have a feeling that the old woman is someone all these assholes have a soft spot for, so I’m going to win her over.”
I face him again, my gaze dropping to one of his bare forearms. His rough skin is covered in tattoos, from a skull to a siren, to intricate line art that scars cut through, to even a little design of braided rope, and another of an osprey.
The rest of him matches the roughened demeanor, even down to his stubble. There’s no way a woman is casually hitting him with a broom. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
“No, actually,” he growls. “There are a lot of men here who are surprised you’re prettier than they thought. Can’t blame them. I had the same reaction when I first saw you, but I particularly dislike that some are under the assumption they wouldn’t have to fight me for you.”
Oh,that sends a prickling sensation all through me.
Gods, he has a way to make me melt at the most unpredictable times, doesn’t he? Especially when my gaze roams his torso and chest that’s on full display, rising and falling with each breath to subtly express the power he harbors.
I can't resist teasing him. “Well, if they’re paying attention, they’ll see your weakness is apparently a broom.”
He grins, and gods, does it unwind me when it’s unburdened by his mercenary warlording side, especially the way his lips curl, slightly crooked, creating those damn feelings that make my heart fill dangerously high with emotions I can’t spare right now.
Ishouldn’tspare them, anyway.
It’s only stifled when, as if on cue, a woman who wears an unassuming dress and cloak steals his attention, broom in hand, with a large bag cinched around her waist. She’s swatting at a rat, her faded tattooed left hand waving at it as it scurries away. “Need more traps, Davis,” she comments, to which a man near her yells back, “Aye, aye, Mod.”
