“I haven’t asked you to,” he responded.
Tempest snorted. “It’s only a matter of time. I know what your type are like.”
“My type?” he asked, a little bit annoyed.
She faced him fully and stared him down. “The power-hungry type. I stare at one every day I’m summoned in the palace.”
Rage, hot and fast, exploded in his gut. He leaned out of his chair, his lip curling and a growl rumbling in his chest. “I am nothing like him.”
The stupid female didn’t even have the brains to blanch. He was a hair’s breadth away from shifting. She arched a brow and leaned forward so they were breathing the same air.
“Prove it.”
He blinked slowly, and, despite the rage churning just below the surface, Pyre smiled. “I like challenges.” He glanced at her mouth as her lips twitched. “I need you to come with me to a ball.”
“You mean a masquerade?” she drawled.
She missed nothing.
He gave her one of his charming smiles. “A party is just what everyone needs right now,” Pyre explained. “We need to reduce the tension and ensure continued goodwill between the factions as much as possible. We must keep up a united front against Destin.” And it made for the perfect cover for what he had planned that night.
Tempest teetered her head back and forth, and then pointed at the box in Pyre’s hands. “What’s in the box?”
She wasn’t letting it go. He hid his grin, and, with deft fingers, made quick work of the puzzle that protected the contents from the wrong hands. He lifted the lid and pulled out the delicate mask he’d had commissioned. A wolf.
“Are you serious?” she exclaimed, affronted. “I risked my life for some trinket? Why was Chesh so adamant that I not open it? It’s a bloody mask, for Dotae’s sake!”
“Ah, Temp, it was not the mask that was important,” Pyre replied, shaking his head good-naturedly. He held up the box for Tempest to inspect, pointing out a mechanism on the latch. “If you had tampered with it—tried to open it without knowing the precise solution to the puzzle—the box would have released a poison that would have killed you within four hours.”
She stiffened. “So, all of this was—”
“A test of your trustworthiness,” Pyre said. Tempest began trembling as he set the box on the floor and leaned back in his chair. “Be mad at me all you want; I had to do it. And I have no qualms about telling you how happy I am that you passed.” He was relieved, in fact.
“You are unbelievable,” the Hound hissed. She sucked in a breath and stood.
Here it comes.
A knock upon the door stilled her.
He glanced at the door as Nyx glided into the room, followed by Briggs, who paused in the doorway.
“Out of my chair,” his sister demanded.
“My lady,” he said sarcastically, standing. Nyx flopped into his chair. “Make yourself at home.” He let out a huff of indignation, then moved over to the doorway where Briggs hovered.
“Tempest,” Nyx said warmly. “It is great to see you. You were not hurt on the road, were you?”
She shook her head. “Brine and Swiftly weren’t so fortunate, though.”
Nyx laughed lightly. “They will be fine. I’ve tended to their wounds myself. How have you been doing?”
“Oh, same old, same old. Trying not to get caught for being a traitor and being hanged. The usual.”
Pyre rolled his eyes and left the two females in his study. Briggs followed him and closed the door behind them. Pyre moved down the hallway, his friend shadowing every step.
“Any word of anyone following Tempest here?”
Briggs bent low to reply. “Brine kept everyone off their trail. It’s clear Destin sent other Hounds after Tempest. Presumably to infiltrate your court.”
Pyre let out an arrogant grunt. “They could try, for sure. Oh, they could try.”
They would fail. He’d make sure of it.
Fifteen
Tempest
Tempest was ashamed to admit that it was too easy to fall into her new routine. Time flew by as days turned to weeks. She’d always been a creature of habit, after all; her entire life with the Hounds had been strictly regimented. A good routine made her feel grounded.
She spent much of each morning training. In the afternoons, Nyx always had something to occupy her time, followed by a friendly sparring session. The female shifter was fast. Tempest had more bruises from their matches than she’d acquired in a long time, but it was worth it. She’d become faster out of necessity. It also kept her too exhausted and preoccupied to think of much else.
When dinner rolled around, it was a lesson in endurance. Tempest had always been an outsider, but her uncles had made sure to make her feel at home. The den of deceit—the name she’d given the Jester’s mountain castle—was not kind to strangers. Each evening, it was made abundantly clear that she was not one of them. Normally, baleful glances and malicious whispers didn’t bother her. She’d dealt with them her whole life at the king’s court, but this was different. In the king’s court, Tempest was an oddity. Here, she was the enemy.
She’d taken to covering her hair with a hood because it attracted too much attention and marked her for what she was: a Hound. Tempest wanted to dye it, but Nyx wouldn’t hear of it. Though Nyx didn’t say why, Tempest had more than a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the Jester wanting to show off the traitorous Hound at his side. Every crook and degenerate from leagues away who’d come to stay in the mountains seemed to want to look upon the Jester’s trophy. It rankled her, but she shoved it down. She had a job to do, and information wouldn’t be gained if she kept to herself or allowed the suspicious lot to push her out. And they were right to be wary of her. When she discovered all the parts of the truth, she was coming for them. At least, the ones who were the worst of the criminals.
Tempest pulled the linen from her cracked knuckles and dropped to the sparring mat, the lantern light flickering. She rolled her neck and savored the quiet. Nyx hadn’t been the only one she’d been training with. Tempest would be the first to admit, it was brutal. It made sparring with the Hounds seem like mere warm-up sessions by comparison. Everyone wanted a go at the Hound. There was a lot of bad blood between the Hounds and those of Talagan descent.
During the first two weeks, she thought she might die, but she was too stubborn to give up. No matter how hard she fought against Pyre or Mal or Brine, Tempest lost four out of five rounds. Luck only granted her a win. It wasn’t skill; it was sheer willpower not to lose and chance, no matter how much they beat her. Tempest always got up, even when they told her to stay down. Nothing was ever gained by admitting defeat, or so Maxim said.
Maxim.
Her heart clenched, and she leaned her head against the cold, stone wall, closing her eyes against the traitorous tears that fought to escape. She missed her family. And while she thrived on confrontation, Tempest longed for a safe place just to be herself, to feel like she mattered. Like she had worth. The shifters made her feel like a child all over again—the pitiful female novice taken in by grown men, who indulged their amusement by giving her a chance to fight them. Her fingers curled into fists.