"I think Thao would say it's the gentleman who defends the lady's honor," Owen said. "But for myself, I wouldn't mind watching you show her her place."
"You are mine."
"Yours, always."
I tried to resist the urge, but I leaned up then for a firm, biting kiss of his lips, careful to stop before the Hunger might try to claim the moment. Owen didn't resist the kiss, but he didn't encourage it further either, and I wanted him to know he was more to me than his cock.
Maybe Cosmo was right and I needed to speak to Aric. Having the Hunger was all well and good if it secured me the crown, but I knew now it could be used as a weapon against my enemies. Against my own Chosen if wielded by my sister. I needed the upper hand.
And I wanted a measure of revenge.
3
Aric
If the man driving the supply wagon down the rickety road at midnight had any knowledge of nature and its creatures, he would've paused his horses at the sound of the dove call cooing softly through the dark.
Luckily for me and my men, he was ignorant and it was cloudy, so he had no warning but the brief whinny of his horse as we surrounded them on the road.
"Slooow yourself, friend," I said, mainly to the horse, offering it the sugar cubes in my gloved palm, keeping my head down and tilted away from the eyes of the cursing man on the seat.
"Now, now, calm down ya fool," Scrapper cried, jumping on the bench, wobbling a little until the others steadied the wagon. Still, he held his knife steady at the driver's throat as the horses jerked and stomped and a wheel landed in a deep crack in the road, jamming to a sudden and certain stop.
"You'll hang for—" the driver started, but before he could lift up his baton from the floor of the bench, another of my men, Rutherford, had caught his wrists and twisted him behind his back. The driver grunted and huffed, body sagging with resignation, Scrapper careful not to prick him with his knife. "Do you know where this haul is meant to be going?"
I grunted. Of course, I fucking did.
"They'll track your sorry asses down like it's sport with their hounds and their horses," the driver spat.
My men just laughed, hauling boxes of cured meat and wheels of cheese and crates of fruit just near to ripe off the back of the wagon. One reached for a barrel of wine, and I tsk'd to draw them away.
"Leave it."
"But, Your—"
"I said leave it, didn't I? Let Sir Hubert piss himself with it," I growled.
Scrapper coughed through the wool surrounding his face. He was dressed in a bundle of layers borrowed from the others, our attempt at disguising his too easily recognized form, and he looked almost childlike to me in the moment. I didn't really know how old Scrapper was come to think of it, only that I didn't like to have him on robberies like this where he'd be the most easily caught member of our party.
"Not the horses," the driver said, as I unbuckled the bridles and dropped the reins. I ignored him, and he pressed forward, even against the threat of Scrapper's knife. "Please, if I go back to them with nothing, nothing for all you've taken—"
"You may find the horses about nearby somewhere," I muttered, grimacing down at my own hands. I hated this part. There was always collateral damage, wasn't there? "But you won't be chasing us to the nearest police tonight. Bring him down," I said with a nod to Scrapper.
"We've got it all," Rutherford called.
"Ride on," I answered, and our own court's horses and carts rode away with the haul of the wagon. All but the barrels of wine.
"You don't know what this will cost me," the driver hissed, eyes stinging and watering as Scrapper dragged him down from the bench.
"I do, Marcus of Eventree," I said. "And you'll be repaid. And now, I'm genuinely sorry for this, but it'll be better for you in the long run."
The driver gaped at me and then flinched at the last moment, as my fist snapped up, cracking into his nose. I grunted at the impact and the sharp bolt of pain in my hand as cartilage crunched, and the driver bellowed, stumbling back into Scrapper. I struck once more against his ribs, accepting the punishment of pain in my own body as meager payment for my actions. Scrapper snapped the hilt of his dagger against the other man's temple, and I caught him as he sagged, unconscious.
"Good work," I huffed, dragging the man over to a nearby tree.
Scrapper hummed thoughtfully and I understood his hesitance. The food we'd taken from Sir Hubert would feed many starving bellies around the north, but it might make others' lives worse. This driver, perhaps Sir Hubert's staff. It was a constant balancing act, and too often I felt as though I was on the losing side of the scales. I bound the man loosely to the tree and turned back to the sound of hooves clapping away, Scrapper swatting the horses on their rears.
"They'll turn back to him," Scrapper said.
"It's just to stall," I said with a shrug. "Come on, before any other travelers appear."
I lifted myself into my saddle, keeping an eye on Scrapper as he struggled to do the same, breathless as he settled into his seat. Riding hurt him, bent his joints in uncomfortable directions and left him stiff and aching for too long, but he'd only come tonight on his own insistence.
"There'll be a hot meal back at the bar, and a bed if you want it," I said. The Wing and Rook was a serviceable inn if it had to be. Generally, it was more of a meeting place, occasionally a hideout.
"Are you sure it was a worthy trade?" Scrapper asked. "Distracting the city guards with that rogue of Emory's, just for a little time to catch a wagon of food?"
I frowned, thinking of the man I'd snagged at the festival, the poisoned pin. He'd never admitted to being one of Emory's men, but he sure as hell wasn't mine. The best we'd learned was that he was already wanted in Rumsbrooke for murder in a bar fight. Perhaps Emory had traded the man's cooperation for his own silence, but we had no confession or proof of it.
"He was just another mouth to feed. Better to throw the officials a bone and keep them off our own backs," I said.
We passed the driver's horses on the road, milling nearby, munching away at grass to their hearts' content. I frowned, wondering if they'd move on, or if someone else might come along and steal them before the driver woke up. I reached into my pocket, fingers around a glossy stone I'd found brimming with magic in the river on the way back to Rumsbrooke the night of the festival after the storm. I whispered a charm for safekeeping onto its surface, still marveling that it had the power to hold it at all, and then tossed it to the horses. It ought to be enough to hold them for the night.
"Still think you should've slit his throat for daring to harm Her Loveliness," Scrapper muttered.
"Believe me, I considered it," I answered back darkly. Too many times to count. Perhaps that was why I'd passed him onto the city. I was afraid of what I wanted to do to the bastard, all in Bryony's name.
I wasn't in the habit of considering myself superior for my use of magic, like most magicians. It was a survival skill, not a bragging right, and I was lucky enough to have been able to scrape together my knowledge from a lifetime's worth of study and spying and stealing notes from noble mages.