I grind my teeth. I’m all too aware of those footsteps I heard on the stairs, and I don’t want to get caught right at Slade’s doorstep. “Never mind,” I grumble, feeling deflated.
I start to turn around, but Fake Rip stops me when he says, “I was just messing with you, golden girl.” I eye him as he steps aside, leaving the doorway open. “Go on ahead. He’ll be back shortly.”
My foot pauses in the threshold. “Wait, he’s not even here?”
“No.”
“And...you want me to wait in there? In his private rooms? Without him present?”
Fake Rip shrugs.
Flabbergasted, I shake my head. “You’re a terrible guard.”
“Not a guard,” he counters. “And even if I were, King Ravinger, Ruler of Fourth Kingdom and Rotter of Things, wouldn’t need one.”
Can’t argue that.
He jerks his chin up. “Go on. Unless you want the guards who are about to round the corner to see you.”
My eyes go wide, and I practically leap inside the room before Fake Rip latches the door behind me with a low chuckle. Now alone, I look around the space that’s decorated in deep purples and blues. The ceiling has been painted to look like a snowfall sky, with puffy clouds and snowflakes.
I’m in a small sitting room that has a blue painted desk in the corner. There isn’t a single piece of parchment, book, or quill on top of it, and the chair seems to have been relocated. Several mismatched chairs are bunched together in front of a low burning fire, as if Slade and his guests slid them over to talk together.
Were all the members of his Wrath here? Lu, Osrik, and Judd? I suppose Fake Rip would be considered a member of that as well. But who the hell is he? It has to be someone Slade trusts implicitly to carry this facade. It’s a massive secret pretending to be two different people, and I wonder why he does it. There’s so much about Slade I don’t know.
I remove my coat and let it drape over the back of a chair before I take a seat near the fire. I let my mind spin, but I’m too bunched with nerves to sit still for long, so I get right back up again nearly as fast. I stoke the fire with the iron poker, watching the sparks blink lazily to life, and my gaze wanders over to the inched-open door to my right.
Don’t do it.
I turn away as I put the fire poker back, but I cast another look over my shoulder. Surely it’s no harm if I just take a quick peek?
I’m going to do it.
Just a teeny tiny little look. That’s not weird, right? It’s just a guest room, after all. It’s not as if it’s his actual bedroom.
Before I can talk sense into myself, I walk over to the door, whipping a guilty look behind me first to ensure I’m still alone. The moment I slip inside the bedroom, I’m immediately shrouded in shadow. The windows are covered beneath thick floor-to-ceiling curtains, though I think I see a peek of a balcony door between the two panels.
My shoes skim across the plush carpet, my gaze taking in the black shirt left haphazardly on the ottoman by the fireplace. The bed is swathed in royal blue, with most of the pillows tossed onto the floor, as if they were far too fluffy for Slade’s liking. For someone who sprouts spikes from his skin and who sleeps in an army tent a lot of the time, I guess he’s more accustomed to firm rather than soft.
I head across the room and wander into another open door, because why not? I’ve already come this far.
Inside, I find a dressing room, but instead of each rack being stuffed with clothing and the floor lined with shoes like my own dressing room, this one is pretty empty. There are only a few shirts and pants hanging up, all of them black or dark brown. Some armor is set in a pile in the corner, and there’s also a single pair of boots. But my gaze falls to an alarming number of weapons that are leaning up against the wall.
“That seems aggressive,” I murmur.
What does it say about a male who owns more daggers than shirts? It’s probably not the best idea to sneak into said male’s personal chambers, but here I am.
Just as I turn away, something catches my eye, stuffed at the front corner where I hadn’t noticed before. My gaze latches onto the peek of brown as I slip forward and then shove aside one of Slade’s shirts to have a better look.
As soon as I do, my breath is yanked from my chest like a fist grappled it out of me. I stare at the familiar coat, my fingers running over the dappled feathers and gilded lining. Memory flashes of Slade transforming in front of my eyes for the first time, of me throwing this coat in his face when he called me Goldfinch.
He kept it.
I don’t know when, but he snuck back into those rooms, took this coat, and kept it. My eyes burn and my chest tightens, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at it. Stare and wonder.
With a shaky breath, I turn away and reenter the bedroom, trying to regain my composure. I need to get back into the sitting room, but the sight of that coat has left me reeling.
My dazed eyes drag across the bed, remembering the way he looked when he slept in the army tent, back when we had smoldering coals and a mountain of distrust between us. Closing the distance, I let my fingers trail along his pillow, noting the obvious dip in the feathers and silk where his head must’ve rested. Without thinking, I find myself leaning down to smell it.