Page 120 of A Steeping of Blood
Laith stirred when the door slammed.
“Casimir,” he wheezed.
Arthie toyed with the key in her sleeve. What would she do? Run to him and finish the job? Try to help him? She didn’t know what would happen if she touched him.
“You’re alive,” she whispered, her chains rattling.
He started to laugh but broke into a series of wretched coughs instead. “Don’t act so surprised. If you wanted me dead, you would have ensured it.”
Matteo had said as much himself. At the time, Arthie had wanted to refute him, but it was true, wasn’t it?
There was no telling when the guard might return, so Arthie wasted no time. She finagled her stolen key into the lock, turning until it clicked and the cuffs fell away, dropping her arms. The chain remained locked to the iron ring on the wall, scraping back and forth in her wake.
Laith looked up with a weary chuckle. “There’s the Arthie Casimir I know.”
She pulled out her pocket watch—it was just pushing dawn. She’d been locked to the wall for hours now. Had Jin met with the Council? Was Flick forging a mask? Had she sent out the false invites to her list of people at odds with Lady Linden?
“I know you hated your king, but I didn’t know that extended to the point where you’d sell your kingdom,” Arthie snarled to Laith. “Whatever happened to the Ram having too much power?”
“Sell my kingdom? Do I look as though I’ve gained anything?” he asked. He sounded tired. Empty. There was grime on his fair face, a streak of blood dripping down his brow. “I said nothing, not even when they threatened to desecrate my sister’s grave.”
“And yet, she walked out of here with Calibore and a plan.”
Laith remained quiet, shuffling his hands with a mangled breath.
Arthie scoffed. “Liar. You even told her I was a vampire.”
She should have finished the job that night, but some part of her couldn’t aim for his heart. He had betrayed her, used her, tried to manipulate her, and yet, there was something more between them. Something that hinted at change, something that had whispered against her skin when he’d touched her oh so tenderly, when he spoke of their shared pasts and sufferings.
Laith lifted his chin and looked into her eyes. For a moment, they were clear of pain. For a moment, they were back on top of the Old Roaring Tower again.
“I had foolishly saved my sister’s missives from the king because I couldn’t bear to part with them. The Ram found them, ruined them, and then she started interrogating me. By threatening you.”
Arthie refused to accept the honesty burning in his gaze.
“You believe me to be lying,” he said in defeat.
She laughed without mirth. He was foolish for thinking otherwise. “Forgive me for being unable to trust a word you say.”
He looked ashamed. If regret had a portrait beside it in the dictionary, Laith would be the perfect candidate.
But forgiveness, for Arthie, was not an easy thing.
“I know,” he ceded. “But I gain nothing from telling you.”
She supposed he was right.
“The Ram suspected you were in Ceylan. I told her you’d confided in me otherwise. It didn’t take her long to learn I was lying.”
“Were you hoping for a thank-you?” she asked. “For me to pull you into my arms for watching over me?”
Laith recoiled as if she’d slapped him.
She walked over to him, staring down her nose to where he was dripping blood, his cuffed hands scraping the back of the chair with his labored breathing. The sound of his exhales, the sight of his skin, those twin flecks above his brow—everything sent her off-kilter. The press massacre felt far away, another time, another her. She blinked, certain this was some strange hallucination.
“Is my cat alive?” he asked.
“And well,” Arthie replied. “Her name is Opal now.”
