“You want to make me angry?” If he hadn’t said it in that calm voice with menace underneath, I probably would have said yes. I hated to admit it, but that voice got under my skin and truly made me itch to put some distance between us.
“I don’t think so . . .”
“Then stop talking.”
It looked like I wouldn’t be getting any information from the assassin, but I needed to know one thing. “Was he really going to kill me afterward?”
“I’m sure you’d eventually die months later after he tied you up in that sexual torture chamber you are fond of thinking of and fed off the energy in your body over and over.”
I gulped. It was safe to say I didn’t need to feel guilty about the Latent’s death. I could get rid of one of the murders on my conscience. I needed all the space I could get because soon it would overflow.
Weston scoffed.
I scowled. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my head?”
“Princesses sure like to give orders, don’t they?” That name he called me had shivers running down my spine. Did he know about the prophecy? Or did he know a lot more about me than he had ever let on?
“Why do you call me that?” I asked. His green eyes met my brown ones in a mesmerizing stare. It was exciting, holding his gaze like I was knocking on death’s door. The adrenaline had my blood warming.
“Because I can see you in a palace ordering everyone around.”
He could put any mask he wanted in place. But for whatever reason, I could always see through it. He was lying, and it made me nervous that he had to lie at all. It felt like this man might know me better than I knew myself, and for some reason didn’t want me to know he did.
I thought it was time to cut ties with the assassin before he knew everything about me and my plan. If he didn’t already know every step I was going to take before I did . . .
* * *
I was dirty and tired as I walked to the city’s bathhouse. The entire day had been an uneventful one, taking me further away from Undaley. My stomach was in a perpetual state of knots as I scrubbed my body with the soap I had bought. It had no smell and neither did I . . . or so I thought. When every crevice of my body was washed, I slipped on some new clothes that didn’t have any of my scent on them.
Weston’s confidence that he could find me anywhere either made him really good,
or really stupid. And I was about to find out.
With my old clothes in the bathhouse and the hope that he would assume I was still there, I headed on foot over to the gates of the city. I patted Gallant’s nose before I had gone to the bathhouse and told him goodbye. He understood the fate of Alyria was in my hands and forgave me for leaving him. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I wished I could take him with, but he was probably covered in my scent, and I needed a better disguise.
When I saw a fair-haired man who was alone, loading up a wagon, I knew he was the one. I watched him for a moment while he worked.
When I had the courage, I went over to talk to him. He had a kind smile and dimples. No one with dimples and fair hair could possibly be a bad person. That was my logic, and I was settling with it because I had no other choice but to trust my blurred rationale. The man agreed to give me a ride out of the city. He was heading to Tolerant City, which was a two-day trip, and then I could hopefully afford a cheap horse and head to Undaley.
I was looking over my shoulder the entire time he finished loading up, while itching to leave the city. I was a sitting duck out in the middle of the courtyard. I had my cloak over my hair because I was sure the blond strands were shining in the remaining sun, as though an arrow pointed at my head.
My hands were clammy while I climbed into his wagon. He never asked me why I needed a ride. But I was sure I acted like a frightened wife trying to get away from her husband. He looked at me with some sympathy, and it only made me clench my teeth. It was a good cover, so I didn’t correct him. My genuine story was just too complicated to share.
The cart rumbled down the dirt path and out of the darkening city. I took a deep breath when we got past the gates.
So far so good.
To anyone else, I would look like a woman traveling with her husband, except for the fact that I kept looking behind me every few seconds. As we got further away from the city, the nervous pit in my stomach seemed to grow instead of dissipate. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and it suddenly felt like I was prey being hunted.
The man talked about things I could barely hear over the anxiety swirling inside me. When we stopped to set up camp for the night, I was in a state of shock that I had made it so far. A state of shock that lasted only seconds.
As the man talked to me about his ailing grandmother, I couldn’t even stop to think about my healthy one. Because I was being hunted . . . and was backed into a corner.
My captor walked into the camp, his hood darkening his face. The way he walked, the way he held himself, the shape and size of his body—all the alarming details, told me it was Weston.
But I would have known it was him if I were blind because his presence almost snuffed out the fire.