Page 76 of The Winner's Kiss
Arin apologized as well, then said, “It’s not you who angers me.”
“Oh no?”
“You’re just a close target.”
“How flattering.”
“Kestrel was caught by her father. He had proof that she was spying for Herran and exposed her to the emperor.”
Roshar considered this, his expression guarded. “A new memory?”
“Yes.”
“What else does she remember about the general?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should ask.”
“No.”
“This isn’t prying, Arin. This is gathering information potentially relevant to our current operation. I’m happy to talk with her if you won’t.”
“Leave her alone.”
“You underestimate my charm. Granted, she once pulled that dagger on me, but we’ve put that behind us. She likes me. I am very likable.”
Arin didn’t want to tell him about her raw eyes, or the stripped, thin quality of her voice. The way she’d wept, the utter abandonment. Her face: so alone, no matter what he said to her.
“She’s in no shape to talk to you,” he said flatly. “She rode for two days and a night with no food or water except maybe what she gathered along the road—if she bothered to do that. She didn’t even know for sure that she’d find us. She guessed where we’d go and pushed herself to catch up.”
The prince lifted his brows. “Impressive.”
His tone made Arin wary. “What do you mean by that?”
“She’s got a knack for survival.”
It struck Arin that Roshar could have pressed Kestrel for information before, back in the city, and if he hadn’t, it wasn’t likely out of deference to her ill health and recovery, or because he’d assumed there was nothing to be gained from digging around in Kestrel’s uncertain memory. It was because Roshar wouldn’t have trusted what she had to say . . . then. If he trusted her word now it was only because she’d been damaged by their enemy. Which made her—Arin saw the idea take shape in Roshar’s eyes—a motivated asset to their cause.
“I don’t like what you’re thinking,” Arin said.
“She could be useful.”
“You will not use her.”
“The general’s daughter? We’d be fools not to. You talk about her as if she’s made of spun glass. Know what I see? Steel.”
“You won’t make her part of this war. I’m taking her back to the city.”
“No,” Kestrel said from behind them. “You’re not.”
Arin turned.
The sight of her. It wasn’t just that she looked lost in his too-large shirt, or how her eyes were tired holes. It was the set of her jaw. The way she lifted her chin. He’d seen this before. All the ships that shattered against the rock of her determination. How she’d break herself, too, if she must, to get what she wanted.
Lock this slave up. Her words, uttered the day she’d fought a duel for his sake, still hurt. What had followed: the clench of helplessness. Being outnumbered by her father’s private guard. The first blow. The way she hadn’t looked back as she’d let the door shut behind her. Humiliation. A sort of appalled admiration. Indebtedness. Later: her, injured and limping across the villa’s lawn.
It had changed him. Exposed something running inside him like a vein of soft gold. A slow attraction. Growing, despite himself, into care . . . and more.
