The Bandit King

disgraced and thus, of little value as a means to wound her.

And possibly, amenable to treachery. Which, after all, she had not believed me capable of.

Why had I not thought of it? Too clever by half, d’Arcenne. The pain behind my ribs mounted another notch, and despite it, I felt a curious comfort. There was no way to salvage this. I had become my own undoing.

“If this is protection, Vianne, I should hate to see its opposite.”

I did not mean it cruelly. And yet, as soon as the words escaped, they sounded brutally ill-mannered, and much too sharp. I meant only to provoke her into an explosion, for after a woman rages she is usually amenable to reason. Or, at least, to smooth words. I have used such a strategy once or twice.

I should have known it would not work on her.

Utterly still, those fever-spots in her cheeks glaring at me, the pulse beating in her throat. “Lisele,” she whispered, her lips shaping the sibilant most fetchingly.

It took me a moment to decipher the sudden turn of her thoughts. Her Princesse, Henri’s half-Damarsene daughter. “I did not know they were to kill the Princesse.” It was my turn to swallow dryly. “She was to be married. To the Damarsene. In your stead.”

If I thought her pale before, she was ashen now. “In my…”

“Yes.” Was this what the saying truth is its own reward meant? The feeling of exquisite nakedness, the idea that she, at last, was truly seeing me?

Her eyes narrowed, as a mountain-pard’s the moment before it strikes.

A lick of fire tore down my cheek. The knife plunged, its tip glancing along my chest and tearing through shirt and skin both. Blood flew, and Vianne let out a despairing sound. I twisted her wrist, bruising-hard, and my mouth caught her cry as the knife chimed on stone, flung free. Kisses between us were often shy, tentative; this one was not. Copper and spice filled my mouth, she bit my lip hard enough to add to the bleeding, and I held her pinned as she writhed and fought.

For once, I did not ask. I took what I wanted from her. What she had, what she could give, what I would die without. I kissed her even as the blood welled and the wounds burned, the Aryx between us shifting against cloth and skin, metal scorch-hot and her fingers tangled in my hair, wrenching hard enough to add more fury to the explosion between us.

It was not Graecan fire, but it burned nonetheless. Across the room in a tangle of hot blood and her fevered mouth, tipped onto the bed’s sinking depth, and it was Vianne in my arms again, her softness and the marks of her nails in my back. The hot tight core of her, desperation shaking her limbs and her teeth driven into my shoulder— twas deadly-silent as a back-alley assassination, neither of us weakening enough to give so much as a moan. Tears welling from her closed eyelids, the blood smeared between us, and when at last I let myself careen over the edge, helplessly shaking in her arms, the Aryx burning between us like a star, she wept as if her heart would break.

I should have hated myself. But it was worth it. It was.

I would do it again, as well.

Chapter Sixteen

The knife was, of course, bastard-sharp. It had not cut deep enough to endanger me, but I would scar.

I cared little. Drying blood stung as I moved slightly, brushing her hair back. I had torn her dress, my boots still on, clothing and bedding tangled around us, thrashed and beaten into a mess. I kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Tears welled between her eyelids, vanishing past her temples into her hair. Her mouth, smeared with crimson, was still the sum of most desires, so I kissed her again. Greedy, as if she were an exotic fruit, our tongues sliding, and the thirst in me was not slaked.

The woman was dangerous. What would I not do, for her?

I found myself murmuring endearments against her skin, leaving bloody prints as I kissed every part of her I could reach. She lay very still, trembling slightly as she wept. I tried to press the tears away with my lips, over and over again.

You are not meant for this. Let me take the pain away. “Shh, all’s well. All’s well —”

“It is not well!” she finally choked. “It is not well! You… I… you—”

“I am not a gentle man.” I had told her as much before. I felt the need to repeat it, and immediately gave myself the lie by kissing her again. “But now you know. I am sorry for it, I can explain—”

She struggled uselessly. “Stop. Let go.”

The first thread of unease touched me. This should be so simple now. Had I not just proven…

Well, what had I proven? That I was a vilhain? I already knew as much.

“Not until you see.” The man using my voice sounded far harsher than I liked. “I am not your enemy, Vianne. Everything I have done is for you, for your safety, for you to—”

“Left Hand,” she spat, going limp and glaring at me, drying blood streaking her face. “You betrayed the King, Tristan. You swore to him, just as you swore to me—how can you say you are not my enemy?”

“I swore to you before I ever did to the King. The first moment I saw you, everything afterward was part of it. I had to find a way.” I stumbled over the words—after love a man is stupid, and I was doubly foolish to be seeking to explain this now. “One thing led to the next, but it was all in service to a single end.”

“This?” She struggled again, seeking to free herself of my hands. “All this death? You intended this?”

I pushed her deeper into the bed’s embrace. At least she could not run away; she had to listen to me. Dried blood flaked over us both. “I intended to be with you!” The force of the cry made her flinch. I sought to contain myself, failed miserably. My fingers bit her wrists, she flinched again. “I intended us to escape through Marrseize, taking ship to Tiberia. I intended for Timrothe d’Orlaans to have what he wished and much joy of it. I intended for you to be safe; I intended so much. Everything turned to ash, Vianne. They caught me, and of a sudden I was not only without you, I had nothing. Not even my honor. And you… You were depending on me. And the damnable Aryx, making it even more… I could not forsake you.” I ran out of words. Struggled blindly with all I wished to say. How could the truth turn into such a complex mess?

“Lisele married off to a Damarsene, the King dead, d’Orlaans pillaging Arquitaine—all because of me? Because you…” She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to look at me.

Of course she cannot. You cannot even stand to look at yourself, d’Arcenne. What makes you think she can? “D’Orlaans wanted Henri’s throne for decades, Vianne. If he had not succeeded at this toss of the dice, there would have been another. Twas only a matter of time; I have known as much for years. I saw my chance and took it. The King had made the arrangements, Vianne. You were to be shipped to Damar, forced into—”

“A marriage? With a man I did not care for?” She laughed, a tiny, bitter sound. “Too late to save me from that.”

It cut unexpectedly deep. I loosened my grasp on her wrists and slid from the bed. At least I had not torn my breeches as well, in the madness. She lay as if broken, her throat moving as she swallowed.

“You do not have to love me,” I lied.

“Oh, if I do not, you will kill me as you killed the King? Or marry me off? What will you do to me? What could be worse than this?”

“I am your Consort,” I reminded her. “Until you repudiate me in a Temple. I am your Left Hand, and you shall not be free of that as long as I breathe. As one already dead, I swore myself to your