Her gaze shot to his.
“That’s right,” he told her. “Has my brother not explained the rules?” He tsked when she went pale. “So many bindings placed on my brothers. Rules upon rules.” She could feel his words go slick with his smile. “Though I am not above making use of a few of them when it benefits me.”
It seemed as if Rhen had held her captive for an age, but the song changed, and she knew it had only been tortuously long minutes. “My contract is broken. I am no longer beholden to your rules,” she said.
He liked the way her voice quavered, and he let her feel him relish it. “It does not signify. You see, my lady, you drew the blood of an agent of the Trust, an heir no less, inside the undercity. I don’t have to tell you that citizens of Inara are not under the kingdom’s protection there, but still, I doubt this king is willing to risk war to save a woman with ties to the Trust. You shall pay for your crime.” His grip on her tightened. “And if you do not, it is my right to claim recompense on the one whose magic was threaded through that dagger.”
Nim’s knees gave out, but Rhen held her firm. “So you see,” he said. “That is the bargain I offer. It is you, or it is Warrick.”
Chapter 18
Nim did not miss the echo of Warrick’s offer from the first night they’d met—a bargain he had never sealed with magic and that had tied her only by threat. But Rhen was not Warrick. He was not asking her to risk being hanged, he was forcing her to choose between her own life and Warrick’s, between herself and the future of the kingdom. She could not.
Fates, but she couldn’t even make herself consider the possibility that it might be the choice her father’s bargain had led her to… a choice she would not make.
Her expression firmed in her resolution, but before she could spit back “never,” Rhen tipped his mask up to reveal a calculating grin. Nim’s heart skipped. He bared his face to the ballroom, to the king, as he danced with her.
Throat tight, as if the coming noose had already cinched her neck, she stared back at the man who had just seen her hanged.
He leaned close, holding her trapped by magic, his lips a blade’s breadth from her ear. “Time’s up.”
Stones rumbled beneath Nim’s feet as Rhen’s pleasure swam through her, but it was not his magic she felt. It was a hot, roiling thing, staggering in its intensity. Warrick knew Rhen was there. Warrick had seen him, holding her, his jaw at her neck, his bare hands tight on her flesh.
Warrick was coming.
He knew what Rhen had done. Rhen gave Nim a parting smile, and the instant his grip let go, she hit the floor. Her limbs were useless, her body a river of sensations, none of them good. She was being dragged under by the magic, too much at once, too close, and yet, Rhen was gone. Above her, the crowd seemed to come to their senses. A hush fell around her, followed by the settling of fabric and the stuttering death of the orchestra music. The distant realization passed through her mind that maybe some of them had not noticed that she’d danced with an heir to the Trust in front of a king, but it was gone too quickly. Shoving past the stunned onlookers, Warrick broke into the small space where she lay. His fury was tangible, beneath it, fear and dread. Indecision. He needed to help her, to keep her from the king’s hands. He could not do so without defying the laws of the kingdom. He had to pursue Rhen.
Worse, those around them were clearly beginning to suspect that something more had happened. Margery pushed past a short woman in a dove mask as Warrick knelt beside Nim. He had not seemed to decide whether he might carry her to safety or if he would seize her as if she’d performed a criminal act. He only needed her out of the ballroom. A look passed between Margery and Warrick, then he stood, his voice not quite steady as he commanded the festivities to resume. Just a swoon, someone in the crowd said, as if ladies did so all the time and as if they had not noticed the magic or the agent of the Trust. The onlookers shifted, some going back to their conversations, others watching in wait. Surely, no one had forgotten what had happened to Lady Lora only days before. Surely, they realized something was terribly wrong. Nim couldn’t have been the only person who had felt the magic raging through the room.
She wasn’t able to see the dais but could sense from Warrick that the king looked on, a cold promise in his gaze. Stewart flicked a gesture to the men beside him, and Warrick flinched. “Move,” he told Margery.
He was breaking the rules, interfering with a king’s command.
Margery gave a sharp nod, then she and Allister lifted Nim as Alice dug through a pocket on her costume gown and retrieved a vial.
Nim lost a moment to the effects of the magic and then they were in the corridor, smelling salts beneath her nose. She choked, wheezed a curse, and closed her eyes for a long, horrible moment. When she opened them again, the lot of them were in Nim’s room. Alice scurried about while Allister and Margery settled Nim onto her bed. They were fussing with her shoes, loosening her bodice. Her mask had been lost, and her fingers were cold. Maris waited at the foot of the bed, watching. A line of blood crossed the maid’s knuckles.
Nim was not bleeding.
Her eyes met Maris’s. Something had happened. Perhaps she’d fought to reach Nim beyond the crowd. Perhaps Rhen had distracted the lady’s maid the way he had Warrick.
“Stop,” Nim said to the others. “I’m not hurt. Please.” She waved away their ministrations. “Just leave me be for a moment.” Fates take it, she was done for. It might not happen in the next moment, but by dawn, when his guests had left, the king would summon her. Not for a visit. Not for a cell.
Alice settled a teacup and plate onto the bedside table.
Nim’s throat felt tight. She had lost. She’d no idea how she’d ever thought she could win a game in which she was only a pawn. She was powerless. “Thank you,” she told them, her voice breaking. “Thank you all, but please… I need to be alone.”
Margery and Maris gave Nim a look, but Allister inclined his head, and when he turned to go, Alice followed. The other two eventually did the same, not bothering to conceal their dissent.
Nim stared at the canopy of her massive bed for what felt like hours, but it was not hours. Time was crawling. Her scar throbbed, and her limbs felt weak. She needed rest, but there was no chance she would actually find sleep. If she could have walked down to the dungeons and bloody Calum with her mace, it might have helped. Or if she could go back to when she’d stabbed Rhen and do a better job of it. Those were the things that would ease her. Those or the company of Warrick and knowing that he was safe.
His magic hit her, warm and strong but not near. She sat up, shaking off a sensation that the room spun, and tugged her bodice back into place. Hiking the skirt of her gown, Nim made quick work of removing the scabbard from her thigh to strap it instead at the ready on her waist. She wasn’t certain what she was about—it was not as if she could take down the entire king’s guard when they came for her—but she could not allow herself to feel any more helpless than she already did. The door to the sitting room was closed, her friends waiting beyond it. They were loyal and trustworthy and not at all equipped to help her evade a noose. She took a taper from the mantel and followed the feel of magic into the hidden passageway. It did not lead her to Warrick’s rooms.