“Trust me,” he bit out. “If that asshole summons me, I’ll find a way to kill him, even if I die doing it. This is the right move.”
Rowena lifted a shoulder in a graceful shrug. “If you’re not afraid, so be it. To be honest, I wish I could see the expression on his face when he hears that I’ve taken an undercity lover when I never once caved to his overtures, whether it was pain or pleasure, offers of wealth or freedom. More than once, I said I’d rather die than be his concubine, so he should get on with it.” Her next words were hard as stone. “I might be the only person who’s ever refused him.”
Slay heard what she left unspoken—that Vega hadn’t heeded that rejection. And he had no damn idea what to say. Words of comfort seemed wrong, so he settled for recognizing her warrior spirit.
“And you’re still standing. Something tells me you’ll be his downfall.”
In the flickering rushlight she met his gaze squarely. “I’m counting on that. And like you, I don’t much care if I die in the attempt.”
He bit back a protest. It was one thing for him to talk about throwing his life away, but he was a major screwup. From the sound of it, she’d served Prince Alastor and fought in the war alongside him while Slay languished in this damn dungeon complex. The world wouldn’t miss a fuckhead like him. Somebody like her, on the other hand, that’d be a real loss.
But he didn’t know her well enough to ramble about all the reasons she should live on, and besides, whenever he tried to find the right words, he always sounded like an asshole. Sometimes it seemed like he’d been given only two settings, angry and contrite. At least that was how it always went with Pru.
“We got this,” he said, because confidence was the easy choice.
She smiled at that. “I think I like you.”
“Give it time, I’ll change your mind.” That wasn’t even a joke.
So he was dead shocked when she laughed, a full and throaty chuckle. “Yes, it’s official. I’m delighted to be fake-fucking you, Slay.”
“Uh, me too. For sure.”
In utter bemusement, he trailed her back to the bunkroom, where most of the other prisoners had already settled in. There was no room for them to sleep next to each other, but also no way in hell that he’d allow anyone else to get near her, if she honestly belonged to him. Time to make it look convincing. He nudged the man closest to the far wall with his foot.
“Shove over.” He jerked his head toward the archway. “Or I move you. And you do not want that because I’m not feeling friendly.”
With a muttered curse, the others shifted outward, leaving space for him and Rowena near the back. He put himself between her and everyone else while she studied him with evident amazement. Leaning close, she whispered, “Is that the sort of thing you meant? Because I rather enjoyed it.”
A shiver of surprise traveled up his spine. When was the last time anybody praised him for following his instincts? What the hell am I supposed to say?
“Good,” he finally got out. “Because there’s more where that came from.”
3.
Rowena couldn’t sleep.
Partly because of the way her mind raced, but also because of how Slay placed himself between her and everyone else, like he had a duty to protect her. No, more baffling than that—as if he had a right. Surely she hadn’t given him the impression that she was making him a real offer when she’d said they ought to pretend they were fucking?
But no, he’d said he had to act that way for their pretense to be credible. Rowena wasn’t sure why since most of the prisoners had never even seen an Animari and likely wouldn’t know Slay was one unless he spelled it out. In the undercity people lived looking straight ahead, minute by minute or even breath by breath.
Before Prince Alastor freed her, she had never allowed herself to imagine what her future might look like. Mostly she’d accepted that she didn’t have one—that she’d die in filth and squalor or at long last be murdered by Tycho Vega during one of his demented games. If not, he’d order her execution again after she refused to be his concubine.
So far, she’d beaten the odds. What’s one more time, eh?
She rolled onto her side, bizarrely conscious of Slay at her back. That wasn’t like her. She was used to being a female minority among the rest of the Exiles, so this was nothing new. The other prisoners were snoring, some louder than others.
Earlier, she’d asked Slay why he wanted to be all the way back here by the wall and he’d said, “If anyone comes for us in the night, they have to wade through all of them first. It’s a simple defensive tactic.”
She had to admit that was sound thinking, but now she felt strangely cossetted, though not in a bad way. Shifting, she listened to Slay’s breathing, trying to see if he was asleep. No explanation for that curiosity—it simply existed whether she welcomed it or not.
“Can’t get comfortable?” he whispered.
That was the most plausible explanation, as their beds were rag pallets tossed directly on cold stone, but creature discomforts lacked the power to keep her from resting. Life in the undercity and then constant travel had toughened her up, along with marching with Prince Alastor and camping in the wild after the bombing of Ash Valley. None of that had been easy.
“I wouldn’t be any more relaxed on a cushioned mattress with silk tapestries,” she replied. “A sound sleep is impossible for me as long as the tyrant is still breathing.”
There, that’s blunt enough. For some reason, she didn’t have the same filter with him as she had with others. She’d tried desperately to make friends with Sheyla Halek, but she cared too much what the other woman thought, and Rowena suspected she’d come off as awkward. But with this Animari, talking came easy. Since he’d experienced the undercity firsthand, he already understood; there was no fear he’d judge her origins.
“We’re on the same page,” Slay said. “I’ve thought about it and I listened to cooler heads discussing more rational solutions, but I really think we need to kill that bastard.”
“It might require a larger purge.” She wished that wasn’t true, but the unrest wouldn’t end for good until the old guard was gone. Otherwise they might try to make a martyr of Tycho, rally support in his name with some other demagogue shouting propaganda.
No, the movement needed to die alongside its leader. And she experienced a frisson of satisfaction at learning that her new ally saw things the same way. Some shied from violence; they saw it as a last resort, a solution seized upon by simple minds. But sometimes the festering wound ran so deep that the infected area needed to be cut out, and then cleansed with fire to make sure the organism could survive.
“I’m in it for the long haul. If we don’t free Golgerra, I’m never getting out of here. Never going home.” A pause, as if he was considering his next words. “Then again, there’s nothing and nobody waiting for me there.”
That revelation startled her. “You must have friends?”
“I thought so.” From his tone, he doubted that truth now.
Likely his anger and sadness related to the love he’d lost and the friend who had betrayed him. Unexpectedly, she searched mentally for words of comfort. That wasn’t usually one of her impulses.