Page 60 of Sharpest Court

The violent scene flashed in my mind: my father’s open chest, his blood seeping up my gown.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I gritted out, smothering the image.

“Well, we could always talk about the younger Hunter, the one who fought for you that night in the parlor. What was his name . . . Garret?”

All four bags swayed under my power this time, their chains squealing.

Goren chuckled again. “He was a brute to you at the ransom exchange, but we knew it was for show. He was still crawling for you after we’d finished beating him bloody.”

“Stop,” I breathed. Mara’s account of Garret’s torture was still fresh in my mind, and I didn’t want to carry this image of him, too—crawling to get to me.

“All right.” Goren paused somewhere to my right. I heard the smirk in his voice as he drawled, “Then let’s talk about your Hunter father.”

My specter erupted—a rush of solid power blasting in all directions. The punching bags whooshed outward, the movement gusting my hair. I gasped as the bags rushed back on their chains, about to slam me from every side—

They all jolted to a stop, as though an invisible wall circled me. Goren’s power, I realized, protecting me from the crash.

The bags relaxed on their chains. And then I was shoving them aside, striding across the mat, my breaths roaring out.

“Not bad,” Goren was saying. “You lasted longer than I thought you—”

My specter whipped out, knocking him back a step. “Who do you think you are?”

“Calm down.” He righted himself, unaffected. “I needed to get a sense of what we’re working with.”

“We are not working with anything. We’re done here.” I stormed toward the door.

“Running already? Typical.”

I turned, rankled beyond good sense. “You do not know what is or is not typical for me. You do not know me.”

“I know you’re so used to controlling everything in your life that you can’t handle being challenged.”

“I have no problem being challenged. I have a problem with brutes like you who use their power as an excuse to torment people.”

“You think this is torment?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Then how will you cope if Mara gets her hands on you again? Or better yet, when she gives you to the king?”

I flinched, and he had the nerve to look satisfied.

“That display right there?” He gestured to the bags. “That was nothing to be proud of. That was raw, uncontrollable anger, causing your power to tense like a fist. You want to know why you couldn’t fight Mara last night? Because you were afraid. And unless you learn how to Wield your specter despite the shift of your emotions, that fear will feed itself until your power is rendered useless.” His expression darkened. “You heard what Rheya said. Erik wants to make you his pet. His weapon. Do you want that?”

“No,” I said, hating that he was right. A new, primal fear had been simmering in me since I’d escaped Erik. A fear not just of the physical pain he might put me through, but of the helplessness of knowing I would become his possession again—a thing to be fed and watered and controlled. “But if you want to train me,” I said, smothering my flare of horror, “my father is off-limits.”

“If I want to train you? You came to me. I’m not the one who wants to be here.”

“Yes, you do. You need me to succeed on Banarrat so General Holden will sign the treaty. You need Ansora to remain strong in the Western War.” I glanced at his dullroot scar. “Because if I fail,” I said bleakly, “then the people who did that to you will win.”

It was Goren’s turn to flinch, because my guess had struck true; Goren had gained his dullroot scars during the war against Orren. The war he’d emerged from as a hero.

His jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” I replied, unflinching.

Goren narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth—

“Is there a problem?” At the sound of Keil’s voice from the doorway, Goren’s mouth snapped shut.

I responded without turning, “I don’t know.” I arched an eyebrow at Goren. “Is there?”