Page 46 of A Chill in the Flame
Tyr reappeared with an arrogant smile. “I like him.”
She glowered at Tyr, then returned her attention to a pink, puckering welt across her cheek in the mirror as the tonic knit it together. “Why are you still here?”
“Are you asking me, or her?”
“Jackass.”
He approached slowly from behind, standing a little too close over her shoulder as he looked at her reflection. “I think I’ll do him a favor and help keep you in line. It would kill two birds with one stone if we can keep you put, Ophir. Who knows—maybe Harland and I will become best friends.”
She continued to make her displeasure clear from where she stood, her golden eyes slits as she glared at him through the glass. “You’re not invited. And unless you start explaining yourself, you can show yourself out.”
“What do you want to know?”
His smoldering gaze held hers for a little too long. She was the first to break, looking away as she said, “You came to Farehold because you were following Dwyn because…what were you saying about blood magic?”
He leaned against the wall. Looking up and to the side as if searching his memory like a teacher preparing a lesson, he asked, “There are no Reds in the south. What do the fine people of Farehold know of blood magic?”
Her nose twitched as she fought a sneer. The truth was that she knew very little, save for that blood magic was forbidden, as it led to death. Whispers claimed that moments before perishing, a fae could wield one final power that they’d never accessed before. Little else was said on the subject, as no one was stupid enough to try it and find out.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “Sulgrave has a militant branch of the church who have learned how to call upon stolen powers. If they’re strong enough, it brings them to the brink of death without pushing them over.”
Ophir’s lips parted in silent surprise.
“There are fae who have learned how to take it a step further. Not only do they borrow from the groundwater—isthat what you call the world’s power in the south?—but they can do it while forcing someone else to die in their stead.”
“And…” Ophir searched his face for a tell. He nodded encouragingly until she said what they were both thinking. “That’s why you’ve followed Dwyn?”
“Your guard was wrong about you,” he said. “Look how clever you are.”
His mocking tone was one step too far. She was tired of being condescended to. She was tired of being underestimated, of being cornered, of being forced to play nice, or be proper, or chastised until she filled the royal hole left by Caris’s shoes.
She hated the smug stranger who stared at her from across the room. “Bastard.”
“Oh, I hear you, Princess.” She stiffened as he lifted a hand, bringing his large palm closer to her face. She continued facing the mirror as she watched the man behind her run a finger along the bruise on her high cheekbone. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
Her lips parted at the sudden shift in tone. She didn’t know what to do aside from stare at the man in the mirror. His hand dragged from her cheek down along her jaw. She felt her chin lift, inhaling, lungs filling with air as her body nearly betrayed her. It had involuntarily given him a signal to continue. A treacherous craving had wanted his hand to dip. It had been curious to see if it would graze her neck, her collarbone, settle on her throat.
She caught herself in the moment before she could find out. Ophir grabbed his forearm. Her mouth parted in horror. “Surely, you jest. Do you not realize who you’re talking to? I’m the lone heir to Farehold. I’m the only surviving princess of Aubade. I don’t care what you look at when you see me. Get out, you goddess-damned phantom.”
She turned around to show him the conviction of her glare, but he used the motion to roll her hand so that she no longer gripped him. Her entire forearm was easily encircled inhis hand. Under different circumstances she would have found the motion sexy. Instead, all she wanted was to punch him in the face. Perhaps she would have tried it if she hadn’t been certain that he would have snatched her fist out of the air.
The corner of his mouth tugged in a crooked smile. “Are you kicking me out? Is that really the best way to express gratitude?”
Heat tingled in her palm as she prepared to call on her power. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that this bastard had pulled her from the sea on the edges of unconsciousness and tended to her wounds.
“You’re right,” she said.
He raised a single, speculative eyebrow. “I like those words.”
“I mean to say you’re right: I’m not kicking you out.”
His expression flickered. Taunting became caution as he studied her face. His hold slackened as he took a half step closer. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere. Your guard is right. Dwyn is remarkably unsavory. With her down the hall and Berinth on the loose, you’ll be much better off—”
She broke free of his hand and cut him off by marching to the door.
“Ophir—”
She ignored her name on his lips as she limped for the hall. Her intentions were clear. He disappeared into the place between things—his final expression a look of duress—as she stormed down the hall.
