Page 182 of Because I Killed Him
Rosamund drags a hand through her hair, her throat bobbing, and drops her chin into her palm. For a long moment, she sits still, frowning at nothing. Then the frown begins to fade, softening until it collapses inward. She stands and turns away from the tub, brushing aside the curtain as she makes her way to the bar. One hand moves over the counter, while the other grips the edge, as if holding herself upright.
Then, silently, her shoulders start to tremble. The first sobs are quiet, nearly inaudible, but soon they intensify, tearing out of her in harsh, jagged waves, as if something long-held has finally broken loose.
The sight hits me harder than I want to admit, even though I hate her. I don’t care that Jack doesn’t love her or that she’s making a fool of herself over a low-citizen who clearly wants nothing to do with her. Still, watching her fall apart makes one thing suddenly, painfully clear.
We’re all lying about something.
Rosamund straightens slowly and draws in a breath as if it hurts. Then she reaches into the pocket of her cover-up and pulls out a small black pill.Bliss.With a soft sniff, she slips the drug into her mouth and rubs her facewith both hands, scrubbing the tears clean as if they were never there.
When her monkey finishes urinating, Rosamund crooks a finger, and it scrambles onto her shoulder with a noisy chitter. I step back, slipping into the shadows between a pair of dock chairs cloaked in darkness.
But then…
Oh, shit.
By the time I remember Blues have night vision, it’s already too late. Rosamund spots me before rounding the corner and recoils, her shoulders dropping so abruptly that her monkey shrieks and jumps onto the railing. For a moment, she stares at me, a bolt of pale, wide-eyed panic flashing across her face. Then she lunges, fast and low, a guttural sound rising in her throat. The Bliss is already taking effect, softening her features even as fury contorts them. A half-smile tugs at her mouth while her eyes burn, as if her voice and expression are at war.
“You spying little rat.” Rosamund slams me back against the wall, her sharp fingernails biting through my swimsuit cover-up. “You think you’re clever, hiding in the dark like that? What did you hear? Whatexactlydid you see?”
Her voice drips venom, but her cheeks are flushed and her pupils blown wide. The drug floods her bloodstream with false euphoria even as she seethes with rage, creating a monstrous contradiction, like watching someone scream through a smile.
“You think I can’t kill you?” she spits. “You think just because my brother’s protecting you, I won’t shove a saber through your gut? Ican. And I—”
Rosamund cuts off, still staring at me, but a shock-like ripple spreads across her face. Her head shakes slightly, as if she’s trying to clear it. Then her lip curls, twisting with rage and disgust, even as a fractured, high-pitched giggle slips through her teeth. She slaps a hand over her mouth, trying to push the sound back in, but it escapes through her fingers in a spray of saliva.
“On second thought…” Rosamund activates her Bond as if making a call. “Why put in the effort when fortune has such capable hands?”
I try to use the lull to slip free, but she slams me back, pinning me harder the more I struggle. Fury floods in with the adrenaline. I still don’t knowwhat Rosamundthinksshe saw, but if it’s a fight she wants, fine. I might be banned from weapons, but I still have fists. And I’ve waited long enough to rip that smug smile off her face and shove it down her throat.
I angle back, ready to headbutt her, when footsteps slam across the deck. Light flares from the corner as Irene rounds it with five Coppers behind her. The men look sour, as if yanked from the verdict mid-sentence. Irene moves quickly, eyes narrowed as she strides down the planks and takes in the scene’s scent.
“What is it, Miss Prew?” she says. “What was so urgent it couldn’t wait for the judge to finish?”
Rosamund releases me, her eyes bright as a wound before the blood wells up. She wipes the saliva from her mouth with a slow drag of her thumb, then points a long, clawed finger directly at me.
“I found her, Irene.” Rosamund’s voice is low but shuddering with triumph. “The whore who’s been screwing your fiancé.”
The only man I regret killing is the one who smiled, for he had the dignity to laugh at his own misfortune.
JULIAN LAKE, MASTER OF ARMS
CHAPTER 43
Terror slams through me as every eye on the deck of the yacht turns toward me. For a moment, Irene stares, her body unnaturally still, as if her mind is frozen on the words. Rosamund, meanwhile, transforms the instant her accusation leaves her mouth. Her lips peel back over her teeth, and her gaze rakes over me with slow, crawling revulsion. I know she’s picturing Edmund and me together, and the thought makes her sick.
But it’s the Coppers who unnerve me most, all Greens, all glaring. The sergeant, the one with the honor scar who only suspected this morning, looks at me now as if certain of my betrayal. My disgrace. His eyes cut through me, as if demanding to know why. What pushed me over the edge? Did I crawl into a Blue’s bed for protection? For civil credits? Or was it all for nothing? Did I do it because I was stupid enough to believe Edmund loves me?
I don’t understand.
I don’t know what Rosamund saw to make her accuse me, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone believes her. I can see the truth sinking in like a drop of poison spreading through the bloodstream.
I stumble back a step, then another, my hands groping blindly at my face, my hair, searching for the thing that gave me away… and then I feel my earring.
The diamond teardrop I lost in Edmund’s room, the one Irene found. Of course, she photographed the earring and sent a copy to Rosamund. Unableto track me down herself while under house arrest, Irene sent her bloodhounds after me. Now one of them has caught me.
I want to scream. I want to rip off the earrings and hurl them into the lake. I shouldn’t have worn them in the first place, but then again, Irene and Rosamund weren’t supposed to be here.
Irene steps toward me, and I straighten even as my lungs constrict with sudden, blinding panic. The Coppers close ranks behind her, hands moving toward their weapons as a silent warning to Irene not to overstep. But she’s still too close. I can smell the bitter tang of her isolation, the long, suffocating months she’s spent locked away. Her eyes fall to the teardrop earring, and the muscles in her face begin to quiver. Her expression turns brittle at the edges, so fragile I can almost hear it crack.
