Page 64 of The Winner's Kiss
Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to get closer to him. Her pulse had gone erratic. “I’m fine here.”
“I’d really rather.”
“If I make you uncomfortable, why don’t you leave?”
He laughed again. “Ah, no. No, thank you. Here.” He slid the glass across the table. The remaining liquid sloshed but didn’t spill. When she sat, curious (what would the blood of leaves taste like?), he said, “You might want to try only a bit first.”
“That’s not wine.”
“It decidedly is not.”
“What is it?”
“An eastern liquor. Roshar gave it to me. He said that if you drink enough of it, the dregs start to taste like sugar. I suspect a prank.”
“But you’ve no head for drink.”
He looked as startled as she felt. “Of all the things, you remember that.”
She had remembered something else, too, as she’d tried to sleep. She’d come to ask him about it, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she appraised him. “You seem clear-minded enough.”
“It’s early. Still, I don’t know. This conversation feels just shy of a delusion.”
She fiddled with the glass. “I want to understand a few things.”
“Ask me.”
She wasn’t yet ready to share what she remembered. She set the glass down. “What did you tell the queen?”
“I told Inisha about you.”
“What, exactly?”
He hesitated. “I’m afraid to say.”
“I want you to.”
“You might leave.”
“I won’t.”
He stayed silent.
She said, “I give you my word.”
“I told her that I belong to you, and no other. I said that I was sorry.”
She couldn’t help the rush of plea sure . . . and jealousy. His words did make her want to leave. She felt so unalterably his. It was bewildering, because she didn’t know him, not really, and he knew two halves of her that she couldn’t fit together.
He was waiting for her to speak. He was so still. She realized he was holding his breath.
She said, “That’s political suicide.”
He smiled a little.
“How did she respond?”
“She said, ‘You overestimate your importance.’ ”
