Page 156 of Royal Rebel

Skyer wasn’t in the room. Somehow, that was worse than seeing him again. It prolonged the dread, and made her worry about where he was.

Desfan was seated at the head of the table. His expression was tighter than usual, and his eyes narrowed when he spotted her in the doorway.

Using the cane he’d given her, Imara limped rather ungracefully to the nearest empty chair. The fates might have been with her after all, since it placed her safely between Serai Yahri and Razan.

Glancing up the table, she wasn’t surprised to see Desfan still staring at her. She couldn’t read his hard expression.

Imara Buhari, I’ve been falling in love with you since the moment I first saw you. I think you know that.

His words echoed in her mind, making her skin feel too hot. She reached for her glass of wine.

“How is the cane?” Yahri asked.

Imara was used to the woman’s brusque manner by now, so the sudden question hardly surprised her. “It’s lovely. My skills with it, however, could use some polish.”

Yahri cracked a smile. “The skill comes with practice. You’ll probably master the art just in time to no longer need it.”

If that day ever comes. Imara tried to banish the negative thought as she took a sip of the red wine. Flavor exploded on her tongue. It was Zennorian, which provided a much needed taste of home. It gave her strength, and helped steady her nerves.

Yahri’s voice lowered. “Desfan has informed me of our newest guest. He has asked me to appoint someone to give Warrior Sky Painter a tour of the palace.”

“I’m sure Skyer will appreciate that.” Just as he’d appreciate the use of his formal title, if he’d been around to hear it.

“I plan to give the tour myself,” Yahri said. “My old bones may need to stop and rest frequently, but I think I’m the one best equipped to give him a mostthoroughtour.” Her lips twitched. “It will last hours—potentially the greater part of the day.”

Imara’s throat tightened as she realized what Yahri was offering her. She was going to keep Skyer from her tomorrow, for as long as she possibly could. Gratitude sparked in her chest, but reality descended. “You don’t have to do that,” she said softly. The man was going to be her husband, after all—she couldn’t avoid him forever.

“I know,” Yahri said simply. “But I will.”

Extremely touched, Imara set a hand against Yahri’s rather bony one. “Thank you.”

Yahri tipped her head and returned to her meal.

Imara glanced at Razan, who sat on her left. She was a little surprised the woman hadn’t joined in their quiet conversation, but it was obvious Razan was distracted. And upset. Her knife flashed sharply as she cut her fish with more force than necessary.

Habit had Imara looking for Karim, and—yes, he looked angry, too. Standing behind Desfan’s chair, his hands behind his back, Karim’s dark gaze was on Razan.

Imara sighed. “Dare I ask?”

Razan stopped sawing at her fish, her knife and fork still clutched in her hands as she looked to Imara. “What?” the councilwoman asked, clearly distracted.

Imara nodded toward the head of the table. “Karim’s grinding his teeth; you’re abusing your dinner. Dare I ask what’s happened between you?”

Razan’s lips pressed firmly together, her eyes flickering to Karim. Then she lowered her utensils and twisted slightly to face Imara. Her voice was extremely low. “I sometimes think I hate him.”

“I thought things were improving between you.”

Razan snorted, but there was pain in the sound. “I thought things were better, too. Then, without warning—when I think the fates-blasted man might actually kiss me—he throws all my past mistakes in my face and storms away.”

Imara couldn’t keep from looking to Karim, and she startled when she locked gazes with him. He stared at her with intensity, but that earlier darkness was gone.

“What does he want from me?” Razan breathed, even quieter than before.

Imara didn’t have an answer. “Men are complicated,” she said.

Razan huffed. “And stupid.”

“Yes,” Imara agreed at once. “Definitely stupid.”

---