But right now she looks upset. Angry. I see the truth on her face.
She wants payback.
She needs peace.
I cut her off when she passes my rooms.
“Get out of my way, Miya.”
“What’s wrong?”
She grimaces. “Elizabeth is struggling with the ransacking of our room. They destroyed some personal items. Honestly, they did more to her belongings than my own. I think it was intentional—to sow discord.”
“You’re probably right, and I know that makes you angry—”
“I’m past angry. I’m livid,” she says. “So move. I’m looking for someone to punch.”
Her eyes are wild with emotion.
“Then let’s go to the gym.”
“I don’t want to go to the gym.”
“You can use my sword—it’s a good way to burn off some steam.”
“Your sword?” Her eyes flick down below my belt. “Is that what you’re calling it now? I didn’t see you as the type that likes an angry fuck, but okay.”
She stares at me, daring, annoyed, about to explode.
“I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about discipline.”
She opens her mouth to say something cruel, I see it on her tongue, but I’m ready to stop playing games.
“I don’t have time for this.”
“You’re making time.” I thread my fingers with hers and before she can resist, guide her inside my rooms, shutting the door with a click.
“I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work,” she crosses her arms over her chest. I continue walking toward the painting on the far wall.
“What am I trying to do?”
“Use all your meditation, mumbo-jumbo, peace and tranquility bullshit on me.”
Gods, she’s paranoid. Not that she doesn’t have the right to be, but it’s not a good mindset for battle. Victorine has one motive—and that’s to throw Hildi off balance, and the rest of us with her.
I stop in front of the painting; it’s of a Japanese garden with a small hut in the middle. There are no flowers in this garden—just green. A small stone path leads from the edge of the painting toward the small house with many opaque windows. A stone basin sits outside the door.
I turn to find Hildi standing next to me, also looking at the painting. The lines on her forehead have smoothed, her breathing slightly settled.
“What is that?” she asks.
“Home.”
I hold out my hand.
“Do you not trust me?”
The flicker in her eye tells a mixed story. Yes, she does, but she’s also wary. She stares at my hand for a long moment, but then takes it.