Page 34 of Harbinger

That threat of a smile ghosts over his lips before it fades to a scowl. “I can send for someone to look at your mark.” His eyes don’t dip lower than my chin. He doesn’t even glance at the savage birthright branded into my flesh.

I swallow. “It doesn’t hurt.” Anymore.

Not physically, at least.

“Very well.” He tips his head slightly as if he understands what I’ve left unsaid. “I’ll station Vessica at the door.”

“Am I allowed to leave?” I ask.

His jaw works for a moment. “You are not a prisoner, Lady Icaros. You are allowed to leave, but I would advise against it.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” I murmur. “The Stars marked me as …”

I can’t bring myself to say it.

He does it for me. “Ravenell.”

The name hangs between us. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard it spoken aloud.

Shadows move like omens in his eyes. “The Stars can be wrong.”

Does he actually believe that, or is he trying to trick me into saying something that will condemn me? “That’s damn near heresy.”

“That is reality.” But something unreadable flashes across his face. Still, he shrugs and crosses to the armoire.

Finally leaving the chamber door unguarded.

I glance at it. Chances are slim that I can outrun him—if I even make it to the hallway. Stars know what might be waiting for me if I manage it. But trusting him …

“I wouldn’t,” he says in a low voice, and I turn to find him strapping a sheathed dagger around his thigh. He reaches back in the wardrobe. I brace myself for more weaponry, but he only pulls out a red cloak. His eyes never leave mine.

“I wasn’t going to.”

He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. Swinging the cloak over his shoulders, he starts toward the door. “A word of warning,” he says when he reaches it. “Vessica is less charitable than I am.”

Less? I choke back the response, managing a quick nod before he leaves.

He’s been gone for all of ten seconds before I realize that he’s left me facing the real danger: being alone with my own thoughts.

That seems like a pretty bad idea at the moment.

Better to distract myself with something. Anything. Given that his room is fittingly austere for someone in Order Marius, I come up with nothing. Nothing that tells me anything about the man who sleeps in this bed. No pictures. No letters cluttering the desk. Not even a shirt wadded up and left on the floor.

My body takes over, wearing a path back and forth through the room as I try to outpace my thoughts. But there’s no escaping them. My mind and I are pretty much a package deal.

What does he actually do in here? Even sleeping seems impossible on that thin, narrow mattress.

My heart squeezes. It’s been mere hours since I explored the capital with Kieren. He probably doesn’t even know what happened, and I’m not sure Broderic will tell him.

I shake off that thought. Of course my brother will. And even if things continue to be strained between them, it’s not like Kieren won’t hear soon enough. Along with everyone else in Antares.

So much for avoiding thinking.

“Tell me there’s a bottle of wine stashed in here.” I rifle through his armoire, then his desk. No flask. Not even a pen or piece of paper. Right now, I’d settle for a book. Not that he has one of those, either.

But Bishop does have a book. I saw him steal it. And while I might not want to answer questions about my own fate, I’d be willing to dig up some dirt on his.

There are very few places he could be hiding it. It’s definitely not on him, given the way his dress uniform is tailored to flaunt the brutal, muscled lines of his body—and remind everyone that he’s a killer. Nope, the book must be here. At least it won’t take long to search for it.