Chapter 16
Kai
ny word on the next auric steel shipment? It’s been… Kai!” Kyrian
snaps his fingers in front of my face as we walk together into the
mess hall and its cacophony of banging utensils and overcooked
meat. “Are you listening?”
“Not at all,” I answer honestly. I know I should be listening to Kyrian.
He usually says smart things. But right now, I’m too busy not looking
around to see whether the alchemist is already here. It’s lunchtime, so she
probably is. Plus, in the week since I walked out after kissing her in the
workshop, she seems to be… everywhere. Beautiful and alluring, and—
more often than not—in Logan’s very close company. The fact that their
sudden coziness started the day after that kiss can’t be a coincidence. No,
it’s a purposeful show for my benefit. Or enlightenment. Or punishment.
Most likely punishment. For kissing Rowan or for walking away? Or
for just having the gall to imagine that maybe there was a universe where
she and I could be something more?
As if there was a universe where I could do right by both Rowan and
Lilith.
Neither Logan nor Kyrian have confronted me about the kiss—but they
obviously know it happened. How did they find out though? Does Rowan
confide in one of them now? In both of them? Or had Ulyssus told the other
draken, who’d then informed their riders?
It’s insulting you think I’d care enough to bother, Ulyssus chimes into
my mind.
I haul my mental shields up in reply. That they’d been down to begin
with is another sign of how distracted this mess with Rowan is making me.
“Auric steel shipment,” Kyrian enunciates the words as he thrusts a
lunch tray into my hands. “When is the next one?”
“I don’t know yet.” I force my attention back to the conversation. Over
the past two years, we’ve successfully disrupted over half the shipments of
auric steel coming from Spire East. Sometimes directly, with an ambush on
a moonless night when humans couldn’t see for shit; other times, whispered
words in shadowy taverns did the trick. Not everyone in Eryndor thinks the
war is worth fighting.
Destroying the auric steel shipments one wagon load at a time isn’t the
solution, but it helps keep the alloy-coated weapons away from Eryndor’s
armies. And more importantly, from the secret facilities where they take the
draken they take alive. The ones we’re yet to undercover.
I focus on Kyrian’s question. “I expect the commandant to summon me
for one thing or another soon. When I’m in her—” My steps falter, my
thoughts derailing spectacularly as I catch sight of the corner table where
Rowan and Logan huddle over a spread of books and papers.
No, they aren’t just huddling. Rowan lounges on Logan’s thigh as she
writes something on the charcoal slate before them. His face is so close to
hers that another inch and he’ll be licking her ear. Is that really necessary?
No. Stop. You’ve exactly zero ground to tell Logan to cut it out. Weren’t
you the one who’d ordered both males to do whatever is necessary to win
the alchemist’s trust? Just because you weren’t strong enough to go through
with your own orders, doesn’t mean the others aren’t.
Is that what Logan is doing now? Does he have his wits about him, and
is now just building up the human’s trust so she comes with us willingly
when the time comes? Is all this cozy touching between them a way to
divert her attention, so she does not realize what we are really about until
it’s too late? Or is there more to this?
I reach out to my draken with the question and get an irritated huff in
response.
It’s Logan. How much ahead does he ever think? Ulyssus grunts. Now
stop bothering me with frivolous concerns. I’m busy with what little
hunting this forsaken kingdom offers.
Ulyssus hauls his shield up, shutting me out with the experience of a
five hundred year old draken. I know better than to push.
At their table, Logan says something to Rowan. Whatever it is makes
Rowan throw her head back in laughter. The sound doesn’t carry over the
general noise of the mess hall, but I can imagine it perfectly—bright and
melodious, like wind chimes in a summer breeze.
It’s the same laugh she had for Logan yesterday when he lifted her over
the training yard fence; and the day before, when he bumped her shoulder
as they broke formation. And every day for the past week. Every day since I
tasted Rowan’s mouth in that forsaken workshop and then left her standing
there with no explanation.
An unwelcome tightness grips my chest, cinching tighter as I watch
Logan casually drape an arm around Rowan. Has she noticed yet that for all
the contact Logan makes, it’s always him touching her and not the other
way around? Has she picked up on his practiced habit of gracefully
catching women’s hands and redirecting the movements with such skill that
few ever notice the pattern? Does she know that he always ruts clothed and
from behind? Does she find it odd?
My teeth grind together at the thought of Rowan knowing how Logan
ruts.
“You alright, mate?” Kyrian slaps a bowl of venison stew on my tray,
since I seem incapable of basic tasks. When I fail to answer at once, he
shakes his head. “Fine. Look, there’s Logan.” He motions to the table I’ve
been so carefully avoiding and whistles. “Those two seem to be getting on
well. Let’s go see how well.”
The hint of amusement in Kyrian’s eyes says he knows exactly how
much salt he’s pouring into a wound. Bastard.
“I need to go.” I slap my stew back on Kyrian‘s tray. “Eat mine. Not
hungry anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
Good question. “I’ll go to the commandant,” I say, making a quick
decision. “I’m supposed to be taking one hundred and twenty toddlers out
in two days, and I still know nothing of the assignment.” It’s all true.
Irrelevant, but true.
“Aye. Good idea. See if you can get a visual on the steel transport plans
while you are there,” Kyrian says, already striding purposefully towards
where Rowan and Logan are sitting. Huddling. Doing everything that I’m
not.
I mean to leave right away but find myself standing there instead, rooted
to the spot as Kyrian approaches Rowan, his characteristic easy confidence
billowing about him like a cape. He slides onto the bench beside her,
bumping her shoulder and nearly brushing his hand over her belly as he
reaches over to add his own marks to the slate.
None of them look back at me as I finally manage to get my feet
moving again. What does it matter that Logan and Kyrian get to sit next to
Rowan, inhale her scent, and make her laugh? Their pleasure is only
temporary. Maybe they’re doing this to torment me—they absolutely are
doing this to torment me—but ultimately, they’re just hurting themselves.
Because Rowan will only hate them that much more when the truth
eventually comes out.
