Page 8 of A Tale of Treachery

I thrust the jar of salve at Ryken’s chest. If he was just going to stand there, he could make himself useful. I wasn’t going to stick around and listen to the king’s grunting and groaning.

“Give this to the king,” I squeaked.

A slow, taunting smile stretched across his face, and he interlocked his hands behind his back, refusing to take the salve. “Little crow, I am not your lapdog. You can’t tell me what to do, at least not outside of certain activities.”

My arms shot in the air. Of course, Ryken would prove to be difficult, and I knew what he was referring to by speaking ofcertain activities, but I didn’t know why in the world he ever thought I would want to go there with him. He was a stalker. A murderer. A mercenary.

I’d learned a long time ago to stay away from men like that.

It also seemed strange that he had assigned me a nickname.

“I don’t understand. You’re standing there doing nothing! Why can’t you deliver this jar to the king? I’m certainly not going to stand around and wait for him to finishwhateverit is he’s doing.” I waved my hand at the door, ready to explode. “Do your duty!”

“I am doing my duty. I’m guarding the king from little annoyances like you. Andwhateverdo you think the king is doing, little crow?”

His lips stretched wider, revealing a glimpse of gleaming, sharp teeth.

“Rearranging furniture.”

The assassin laughed, a genuine laugh, and a broad smile overtook his face, one filled with humor and joy. And I stood there tongue-tied and helplessly caught within the gravitational pull of that smile.

The moment was short-lived, though, interrupted as another loud, feminine moan filtered through the door.

My eyes rolled. How many women did the king have in there? “She must have stubbed her toe.”

“Oh, yes, they must be arranging furniture awfully hard in there,” he teased.

I turned to leave, resigning myself to admit defeat and later notify Redmond of my lack of success in the simplest delivery. When out of the corner of my eye, a chaotic shift took place in Ryken’s expression, and before I could take my first step, strong fingers wrapped around my wrists like manacles.

I lost my breath when he dragged my body closer and whispered in my ear, “If you’d like, you could help me rearrange some furniture in my room. I’m sure I could have you moaning louder than that.”

My jaw dropped.

“Get your hands off me,” I demanded, tearing my wrists from his grip.

But before I could gain any distance from the distasteful male, my braid was twisted around his fist, dragging me backward. I kicked and screamed desperately, fighting against his hold as he pulled my body flush against his.

Filled with fury and rage—and a little bit of desperation—I reached into my boot and grasped the handle of my dagger. Thanks to the adrenaline that coursed through my body, I was able to break free and twist around.

I held the dagger to his throat and cursed beneath my breath.

The move was a huge mistake.

Ryken went entirely still, and a deadly sheen cast over his face. He was no longer playing around.

Terrified, I tried to hold my hand steady and remain composed and in charge, but my hand shook, and a thin line of blood welled on his skin.

My breath stilled. It was over for me.

He released my braid with a growl, the look in his eyes deadly enough to make me back away in fear. I still held the blade up, pointed at him for protection, but from the fire blazing in his irises, it was clear that the dagger was pointless.

He mockingly raised his hands, palms in the air, and slowly moved forward with a catlike grace, a sly maneuver that had my body pinned to the wall. Again.

I stood motionless, helplessly tracking the small drop of blood that trickled down his neck. I was in trouble. No one drew Ryken’s blood and lived to tell the tale.

My eyes darted desperately around the hallway in search of a means of escape, but he tore the dagger from my grip and placed the cold metal to my neck.

I swallowed as he tutted and examined the blade and the precious stones lining it. He weighed it in his hand with a hum of approval. “Now, where did you get a fine blade like this?”

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