She knew him. Oh, she knew him. But why he seemed to think anything that had happened to him had been in any way Bree's fault, she couldn't fathom.
"Long-winded and bitter," Bree hissed, fear twitching along her back.
As if he needed to, the shadowy figure lifted his cowl from his head to reveal the skeletal visage beneath.
Bree kept the knife pointed right at him. She spat his name just as heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs beyond her room. "Samelqo."
The aged heq-Ashqen inclined his bald head. A heavy slave's collar glinted around his neck. "My conqueror," he sneered, "my queen."
Sarcasm dripped from his words like blood from a wound. Whatever wounds Samelqo eq-Milqar now suffered, none of them were Bree's doing.
"Why did you follow me?" Her heart beat to the thump of Darron's approach. She didn't have time to hide the possessions she'd strewn across the bed, but there were larger problems just now than Darron stealing from her.
Samelqo's nose twitched with distaste. "You murdered my king."
Bree had murdered him? A queer giddiness fizzed in her chest. Bree might have laughed in Samelqo's dour face. After all that had happened, he blamed Bree over anyone else―not Aurelius or Dashel.
Her.
"Then you don't understand anything," Bree said. She smirked, allowing herself the fleeting pleasure of his surprise. "Dashel killed King Eshmunen. I'm just another of Aurelius's discards."
The door thudded inwards, and Darron's bulky frame loomed behind Samelqo.
Don't let your eyes warn him.
Samelqo must have heard Bree's lout of a lover on the stairs, but he didn't move. Fool—he ought to know better. That pride that had allowed him to do whatever he liked in the palace meant nothing here. Fists and quick fingers decided power on the road.
Bree slid her knife back into place as discreetly as she could. No need to complicate matters—Samelqo's accusation against her aside, she wasn't sure yet what he wanted, and the knife would only make Darron suspicious.
The plunk plunk of Osen the Feislander following Darron told her hiding the knife had been the right choice. Osen was nothing if not one to jump to conclusions.
Darron didn't give Samelqo time to turn around—he hauled the cloaked intruder back by his elbows, then pinned him against his chest. Samelqo didn't struggle—even he must see Darron was too big to be worth fighting.
Bree gripped the edge of the bed, digging in her nails. She hadn't wanted whatever this was. Travelling with Darron was supposed to be simple. But here was another Massenqen causing trouble, as they always did.
Behind Darron, Osen the Feislander had his hand at his belt. His gaze roved toward Bree and the myriad objects strewn across the bed.
She should have hidden them, but it was too late now. If pressed, she'd have to tell them the truth—or half of it.
"Were you going to touch my woman, old man?" Darron released one of Samelqo's arms but hooked his fingers round his slave collar instead. He gave it a sharp tug.
This time Samelqo squirmed, as though the collar had pinched him.
Bree winced, but then a hideous jolt of delight coursed through her. He wasn't proud now, Qemassen's troublesome priest. In Darron's broad arms, Samelqo was as lowly as Bree and as fragile as Aurelius when they'd dragged him bloody from his whipping. She might hate Aurelius, but she could still loathe the man who'd tried to murder him.
Chapter 2: Sisters: Section II: Bree
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