Page 134 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
There was the wooden chair I’d sat in while the healer worked, the stool upon which he’d perched, a few unmarked crates. A shaving knife rested on the lip of a wash basin in the corner. Breen had let me keep my satchel but had confiscated my dagger; I plucked the blade from the empty basin and tucked it into my pocket.Just in case.
The only other furniture was a luxurious-looking bed—piled with furs, quilts, and pillows—that took up the entire back wall of the tent. For a few seconds of weakness, I stared at it with a covetous need. Had it not been Brendan’s, I would’ve been tempted to lie down—but this washiswar camp,hisoperation,his fault. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, but the exhaustion was eclipsed by my simmering dread.
The fact that Brendan was here, following Noble’s father’s orders…this seemed to be about more than just targeting alchemists at the Collegium. Something bigger was going on.
And clearly, Brendan had no problem making me wait to find out.
I turned away from the bed, sweeping my attention across the spread of food. My stomach was pinched and hollow from days on the road, but when I picked up a cube of cheese, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it—so I set it back down on the platter.
“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
I looked up and there he was. Brendan Harrow, but older, standing just inside the tent. In my youth, I’d watched countless girls swoon over his bulky arms and symmetrical face, but his conniving countenance had always set me on edge. His competitiveness, superior attitude, and distain for Noble had only added to my distrust.
I gestured at the table. “Not much of an appetite.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” His appraising expression softened into a tender form of bemusement. “Fates, it really is you.”
The whole central table was positioned between us, and yet I still felt like we stood too close.
“My subordinates weren’t entirely convinced, but…” Brendan looked me up and down—eyes lingering on my chest—or perhaps the crust of dried blood that his healer had refused to let me clean—before finding my eyes again. “It’s unmistakably you.”
“Glad someone believes me.”
“You sound tense.”
“It’s been a tense few days,” I replied, “what with the attempted murder, kidnapping, and—” I lifted my left shoulder, drawing attention to my injured arm in the sling.
“But you’re safe now.”
“Am I?”
“Do you not feel safe in my camp?”
“I’m your prisoner.”
Brendan frowned and took another step farther inside. “We don’t have to talk about that right now.”
“I think we should.”
“Are you sure you aren’t hungry? Tired?” He gestured to the bed. “You’re welcome to—”
“What am I doing here, Brendan?”
A flash of something sinister darkened his eyes for the briefest moment, then cleared. In all my years knowing him, Brendan had never threatened or harmed me, but sometimes he got this look—a harsh tension that signaled a capacity for violence, like he was simply waiting for an excuse to unleash it.
“I’m not sure what you’re doing here, Hattie,” Brendan said slowly, “but I’m curious to find out. Why don’t we sit?”
“I’m comfortablestanding.”
“Very well.” He plucked a grape from one of the platters at the opposite end of the table and popped it into his mouth. The crunch sent a shiver down my spine. He raised a palm in an inviting gesture. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I rested my good fist on my hip. After the past two days, I was in no mood for veiled conversation. “I’m here because you sent five morons to Fenrir to murder alchemists and they targeted me.”
Recognition—or perhaps irony—flickered across his face, but I didn’t know what to make of it. “I’m glad you outsmarted mymorons.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said. “It would’ve been embarrassing to tell General Asheren that you accidentally murdered a Wynhaim.”
“You are not justanyWynhaim.”
