Amaranthe straightened the crimson, braided-hide band across Basilard’s chest. Following in the Turgonian style, he wore it diagonally across a crisp white shirt with silver piping. According to imperial lore, the band was symbolic of the across-the-back sword scabbards the original conquerors had worn, a throwback to the days when the size of a man’s sword had indicated...well, no man had dared carry one any less than five feet long.
How do I look? he asked when she stepped back.
“Maldynado picked out your clothes and dressed you,” Amaranthe said. “How do you think you look?”
Fabulous?
“Correct. How’s your shoulder?” They had taken him to a surgeon to remove the pistol ball, and Akstyr had applied his healing fingers, but she was still surprised he had been able to compete in the final Clank Race. Compete and win. He’d said he had realized his purpose—or perhaps remembered it—down in that laboratory and had been motivated to kill himself, if that’s what it took, to earn dinner with the emperor.
Basilard rotated his shoulder. Good enough. How is your knee?
Amaranthe grimaced. “Also, good enough. Unfortunately. I was hoping for more of a vacation from our training regimen.” She glanced toward the doorway of the rail car, though she doubted Sicarius was anywhere nearby. He had been scarce the last three days, and she wondered if there was something he had not told her about the events below.
Sicarius does not know what a vacation is.
“I’ve noticed.” She could use one though. Earlier that day, she had talked to Keisha about Fasha’s death, and the weight of that failure, along with so many others, hung heavily about Amaranthe’s shoulders.
When I get to talk to the emperor, Basilard signed, what should I say about the team?
Everything, Amaranthe wanted to blurt. Basilard should tell Sespian how much they’d done for the empire, that they were responsible for stopping his assassins, for fixing the water supply when it was poisoned, and for saving the athletes. And he should let the emperor know Sicarius wasn’t the demon he once knew.
Amaranthe exhaled slowly. “Don’t say anything about us. That’ll get you thrown in the dungeon. You didn’t enter the Imperial Games using the name you go by now, so, with luck, he won’t know you’re part of a team of criminals. Wrongfully accused criminals, but criminals nonetheless. Just talk to him about what’s important to you.”
Basilard held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. I understand.
Amaranthe waved to Books, who was sighing dramatically and repeatedly as Maldynado fiddled with his clothes. Since he no longer had a bounty on his head, Books would go with Basilard to act as a translator. Sending two members of her team to see the emperor was risky, but this was Basilard’s dream. Besides, they were the quietest and least notorious of her crew.
What if we get thrown in the dungeon? Basilard asked, as if he had been reading her thoughts.
“We’ll rescue you, of course.” She patted him on his good shoulder and debated a moment before voicing her next thought. “I’m glad you chose...to set aside the past to try to improve the future.”
He stared at her. You know? That I meant to kill...
He did not finish. He didn’t need to. Amaranthe knew.
“You’d been glowering suspiciously in his direction for months,” she said quietly, so the others would not hear, “and then suddenly you were avoiding looking his way at all. And spending an inordinate amount of time with Akstyr.”
Oh.
“You don’t have to forgive people for their past crimes, but if you believe they can do future goods, perhaps it’s worth helping them along that path.”
Perhaps. It’s hard for one man to make those kinds of choices. Normally a priestess would advise.... Basilard grimaced. It doesn’t matter. No priestess will advise me any more. Even if I avenged our people, it wouldn’t make a difference. Not for me. I have no chance at redemption.
Amaranthe blew out a slow breath. What could she say to that? “I’ve noticed...every culture has a different notion of what the afterlife entails, which makes me think nobody’s all that certain. Maybe your best bet is to find fulfillment here, in this life.”
Basilard raised a single eyebrow. You think I can find fulfillment with Sicarius?
Amaranthe smirked. “Perhaps not him specifically, but if you can get him on your side, he’s pretty useful for helping achieve goals.”
Basilard stroked his chin, and she left him like that. Considering her words, she hoped, and not dismissing them as the ravings of a Turgonian heathen.
Amaranthe headed for the doorway, but Maldynado stopped her with, “Don’t go far, boss. We’ve got to get you into your outfit and do something with your hair.”
“My outfit?” She cringed and wished she had not mentioned that she was meeting Deret that evening. She only intended to tell him her team’s side of the story, but Maldynado believed that, because this discussion was taking place in the Imperial Gardens and involved a picnic basket, it should be treated as a tryst.
“I picked out something tasteful for you,” Maldynado said.
“Tasteful?” Books said. “You? That’s doubtful.”
“You doubt my fashion sense?” Maldynado asked. “You who, most days, wear the same rumpled clothes as you slept in? And who...”
Amaranthe left them to bicker. Maybe she could sneak out of camp before Maldynado finished with Basilard and Books.
When she hopped out of the rail car, she turned and almost stepped on Sicarius’s toes. He stood by the door, his back to the rusty metal siding.
“Something you wish to discuss?” Amaranthe could not imagine him eavesdropping on a conversation about clothing.
“We should move the camp tonight. If Basilard is recognized and interrogated, he could lead the imperial guard right to us.”
Always the positive-thinking pragmatist.
“We have been here for a while,” Amaranthe said. “We can move tomorrow.”
“Tonight would be better.”
“I don’t believe Basilard would give us up, even if he were taken prisoner. Besides, tonight everyone’s busy.”
“Busy,” Sicarius said.
“Sorry, but after the last week, I think a few days of relaxing and recuperating are in order. You’re welcome to do so, too.”
“Relax.”
“Yes, it’s something most humans need to do. It involves getting one’s mind off one’s troubles, putting away one’s extensive knife collection, and not stalking about in a hyper-alert state all the time.”
“Sounds like a way to get killed,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe pointed toward the rail car doorway. “Maldynado and Akstyr do it at brothels all the time, and nobody’s bothered to stick daggers in their backs yet.” She realized how that might be construed and winced. “Not that you need to visit brothels to relax. I mean, unless that’s what you prefer, because it’s not my business if you do, but you could, uhm, take a nice moonlit stroll on the beach.” Oh, sure, like any man would choose that option. “Or play Tiles or gamble a bit, or, uh...” Dear ancestors, she could not imagine what he might do for fun or relaxation. Practice throwing knives? “Well, you should do something you’d like to do tonight, as the rest of us are, and we’ll worry about moving in the morning.”
Sicarius, as usual, regarded her with the blandness of a particularly featureless rock, then walked away.
* * * * *
The dress Maldynado had chosen wasn’t entirely appalling. The V-neck and sleeveless nature left more skin showing than Amaranthe was wont to do, but it was summer. Though the sun floated low over the horizon, it still beat against her shoulders, and the faint breeze felt good whispering across her bare arms. She enjoyed the rustle of the silk swishing about her legs, too. She never could have afforded such a garment on her enforcer salary. No doubt Maldynado had wheedled it from some businesswoman for free.
For once, she wore her hair down, though a braid on either side of her temples pulled the locks away from her eyes. Pleasant evening at the Imperial Gardens or not, one had to be prepared should one need to defend oneself. She could kick off the sandals if she needed to run away—or drive a heel into someone’s crabapples.
Amaranthe chuckled sadly at herself. “Turn down the boiler, girl. Relax.”
As she crunched along the park’s main gravel pathway, she vowed to enjoy the summer evening. She inhaled the floral scents that wafted from flower baskets hanging from lampposts alongside the path. She passed a group of teenage boys competing at draftball in a sandy arena while younger children played hide-and-seek amongst the tall, dense shrubs of the Emperor’s Maze.
Deret had suggested they meet at Lookout Vista at the center of the park, but she spotted him before reaching the base of the hill. He leaned against the waist-high lip of a fountain. Above him, Vlem the Valiant held a sword aloft, and a curtain of water streamed from the granite blade. Amaranthe smirked, thinking of Maldynado’s concern about a statue being made of him swimming up a squid’s hind-end. That wouldn’t likely make center stage in an imperial park.
“Good evening, Ms. Lokdon.” Despite having the sword stick in one hand, and a bulging canvas tote in the other, Deret performed a graceful bow. He wore a sleeveless tunic that accentuated muscular arms, which he managed to display nicely during the greeting. “You are looking lovely this evening.”
The suave greeting was somewhat diminished when the head-sized draftball from the boys’ game sailed into the fountain, sending a splash of water into Deret’s face. He stepped away and awkwardly rearranged his belongings so he could wipe his spectacles with his shirt. A nervous boy trotted up to retrieve the ball amongst numerous utterances of, “Sorry, my lord.”
“Good evening, Lord Mancrest,” Amaranthe said to rescue the boy from any backlash, though Deret did no more than give the lad a faintly peeved glance.
“Please, call me Deret. Now that you’ve had me at your mercy a couple of times, I feel you’ve earned the right to call me by my first name.” He winced. “That sounded arrogant, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’m used to that from warrior-caste types. I’ve been working with Maldynado for several months now.”
“He’s...not exactly someone to whom I’d wish to be compared.”
“Because he’s disowned?”
“Because he’s Maldynado.”
“Ah.” Good answer.
“May I call you Amaranthe?” Deret looped the tote over his opposite wrist, eliciting a clinking of glassware within. He gripped his sword stick with the same hand and offered Amaranthe his free arm.
“Yes, though you’ve been particularly troublesome, and I’m not sure you’ve fully earned the right yet.” She smiled to let him know she was joking and accepted his arm. Sadly, she could not remember the last time a man had offered her his arm. Though she appreciated the gesture, a twinge of guilt ran through her, as if she were betraying Sicarius. But this was just a dinner related to work. A chance to further their cause. Besides, it was not as if Sicarius had given her reason to hope anything might happen between them.
“You’re most kind.” Deret guided her toward the path leading up the hill to Lookout Vista. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t certain you would after you read the article in The Gazette. I’m sorry it said so little about you and so much about the bravery of those on the Saberfist. I could only report what I witnessed with my eyes. I know you and your team were down there and may have been the ones responsible for destroying that strange ship, and the kraken as well, but...”
“It’s fine,” Amaranthe said. “You mentioned us, and you didn’t imply we were behind everything.” It was nothing short of their most visible triumph yet.
“Still,” Deret said, “I’d like to hear your story and about everything that happened. Maybe we could do an interview for the paper.”
“I’d be happy to tell you about it, but perhaps it’d be better for us—and your health—if you didn’t come out too openly in favor of my team.”
“My health?” He frowned.
“You’ve heard of a group called Forge?”
Deret’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“We’ve irked them a couple of times, and it sounds like they had an interest in this venue, too.” They had reached the crown of the hill, offering a view of the lake beyond the trees and warehouses, and she nodded toward the sunset-streaked water to indicate the laboratory vessel. It had sunken back to the bottom as soon as the athletes were pulled out. She had thought the Saberfist might want to salvage it, but the marines had seemed happy to have it disappear. It would be hard to continue denying the existence of magic with a ship full of evidence to the contrary. She wondered what Sespian thought of the whole event.
“I’m not one to run from a threat.” Deret thumped his sword stick into the gravel path and grimaced at it. “Or hobble from a threat either.”
“But if you have a facade of neutrality, or even come out in favor of business in the capital, then you won’t likely be targeted, and you’ll have an easier time getting information from various enemy sources. Perhaps you could even share some of that information.” She gave him her best winsome smile.
“Ah, so you want your own personal spy at The Gazette?”
“Are you offering to work for me?” Her smile broadened.
“Er, no. I mean...” He poked at the gravel with his sword stick. “You’re good, you know that, right? Since the day I met you, it’s been hard for me to think of you as an enemy to the empire.”
“That’s because I’m not an enemy to the empire.”
They reached the top of the hill where stone benches waited for those wishing to watch the sunset. A meditation pit and a pair of wrestling rings occupied the area too.
“No, it’s because you don’t seem like... You know those sexy, dangerous women who you can tell just want to manipulate you to their own ends? You don’t seem like that at all.”
Amaranthe raised an eyebrow at him.
Deret stopped. “What?”
“You said I wasn’t sexy. I hope you weren’t expecting a kiss tonight.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean, uhm...” His bronze skin took on a suffused hue that matched the crimson warblooms in the planters framing the benches. “I just meant you seem nice. And wholesome.”
“Wholesome?” This time both of her eyebrows flew up. “That’s what my father used to say about broccoli.”
“Wholesome isn’t bad,” Deret said. “I like wholesome.”
“Hm.”
He set the tote on a bench, withdrew a blanket, and spread it on the sand of the meditation pit. Deret was avoiding her eyes, and his cheeks were redder than ever. He removed a bottle of apple wine, glasses, a covered dish, and slices of flatbread for dipping in oil.
He cleared his throat. “This kiss, was that on your mind for tonight?”
“Uhm.” Amaranthe had only blurted it out as a joke. She could easily see liking Deret, but more? Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Being with someone who would take her on picnics to parks and share laughs with her.... It was not as if she could see Sicarius ever doing those things. Dear ancestors, she had never even gotten a true smile out of him. “Let’s just see if we can make it through the evening without you trying to turn me over to some marines.”
“That sounds like a good start.”
Deret maneuvered himself onto the blanket with a faint wince, and she sensed irritation in the stiff way he set the sword stick aside. Though war wounds were common in the battle-seeking empire, he was young to have to deal with a permanent disability. He converted the wince into a smile and lifted a hand, inviting her to join him.
She sat cross-legged beside him.
“So,” Deret said as he dug out a corkscrew, “are you going to give me the full story of what happened down there, or am I going to have to go into aggressive interviewer mode?”
“Does an aggressive interview involve threats and punches?”
“Usually only with prospects that are male and criminal.” He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one.
“And female criminals?”
“I have to bludgeon them into talking using my wit.” He grinned, and she found herself responding in kind. “But,” he went on, “I’m told it’s not—emperor’s warts!” He gaped at something on the other side of Amaranthe.
Sicarius stood there, hands clasped behind his back. Her first thought was that he had been running and stopped by to check and make sure Deret wasn’t up to no good, but he was freshly shaven and had also combed his hair, though tufts still stuck out in spots, a result of him choosing to cut it on his own...with a knife. He wore his typical fitted black with his shirt neatly tucked in. No red dust from the lakeside running trail smeared his soft boots. He was as tidy and presentable as ever, if one ignored the throwing knives adorning his arm.
“Problem?” Amaranthe asked.
Deret had sloshed wine on his arm, and he wiped it while he glowered at their intruder.
“Yes,” Sicarius said.
“Back at camp?” she asked.
“No.”
Amaranthe waited for him to explain his presence. He simply stood there, watching them. He hadn’t decided she needed a bodyguard, or, emperor forbid, a chaperone, had he?
“What is the problem?” she asked.
“Besides his presence?” Deret muttered.
“I wish to speak with you,” Sicarius said, ignoring Deret. Wish? Not “will” or “must?” That was...polite for him. Yet, if it wasn’t an emergency, surely it could wait.
“Now?” she asked, pointedly tilting her head toward Deret.
Sicarius flicked a dismissive glance toward him, but said, “I can wait until you finish here.”
He made no move to leave. Did he intend to wait right there?
“I didn’t bring enough food for three,” Deret told him.
“I am not hungry.”
Amaranthe never would have considered Sicarius the type to be deliberately obtuse, but he certainly seemed to fall into that category tonight. She sighed and told Deret, “I better see what he wants.”
“Aren’t you in charge of the group? Can’t you tell him to run along and sharpen his knives?”
For the first time, Sicarius turned his gaze on Deret, and it was an icy one. Amaranthe did not think he would attack someone simply for annoying him—surely, Maldynado would be dead thirty or forty times by now if that were the case—but Sicarius might decide Deret represented a threat, and do away with him the callous way he did away with other threats.
“My wholesome charms don’t work that well on him,” Amaranthe said, climbing to her feet as she spoke. Best to separate the two men before Deret sent any more jabs at Sicarius.
“You’re coming back, right?” Deret asked.
“Yes,” Amaranthe said at the same time as Sicarius said, “No.”
“I’ll be back,” Amaranthe said with a cool look of her own for Sicarius, then she followed as he led the way down the hill.
The sun had dropped below the horizon, and twilight darkened the park. Gas lamps glowed, but Sicarius avoided the paths they lit, striding across the grass toward the towering hedges of the Emperor’s Maze. Amaranthe’s heart sped up, and an uncertain flutter of anticipation danced through her gut. If this were any other man, she’d assume he was leading her into the hedge maze for a private tryst, but this was Sicarius. He’d be more likely to lead her off for a private evening of weapons practice.
Though her sandals and dress made her gait slower than usual, he was careful not to outpace her. He wound his way into the maze. Giggles and low conversations drifted from the alcoves. On such a lovely summer evening, it might be hard to find a private spot anywhere in the park.
They padded down a long aisle of lush grass surrounded by the smell of freshly watered hedges and flowers, and he seemed to find a spot he liked. He turned into an alcove with a bench and a small fountain tinkling softly.
“Romantic spot,” Amaranthe said. “Are you bringing me here to seduce me?” She kept her tone light, so he would know she was joking, but that nervous flutter teased her insides again. What if she wasn’t? Or he wasn’t? Or—erg, she had to stop thinking.
“You’re dressed for it,” Sicarius said, surprising her.
Her first thought was that he was implying disapproval at her bare-armed attire—he certainly had been insulting about the last dress Maldynado picked out for her—but his tone lacked any sort of edge, and he looked back and nudged her when she drew even with him.
Ah, that was teasing, if one could call it that. He was quoting her line from the lake.
“You’re not,” she said, quoting his line.
“No?” Sicarius stopped before the bench and examined his clothing. He smoothed a non-existent wrinkle and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the hilt of one of his daggers.
Actually, the black, however unimaginative, did accentuate everything nicely, and he’d have little trouble stirring a woman’s fantasies in that outfit...or anything else. But that was far too honest to admit aloud. “In my experience,” she said, “seductions usually involve fewer knives.”
“Huh.” Something in that single syllable made her believe that hadn’t been his experience. She supposed anyone with the guts to proposition him...liked that it took guts to proposition him and found the blade collection an appealing part of the package.
Sicarius sat on the bench and held a hand out, offering her the seat beside him.
Amaranthe ought to tell him to hurry up and say what he had to say because Deret was waiting on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to mention him. She didn’t want to go back to Deret, not when she actually had Sicarius in a romantic spot, and he wasn’t discussing work. Well, he wasn’t discussing anything yet. She didn’t know what to expect. It was bizarre of him even to sit on a bench; usually, he’d nod for her to sit while he remained standing and alert, surveying their surroundings as they spoke.
It was not a large bench, and when Amaranthe slid onto it, her leg touched his. The tall shrubs must have protected the stone seat from the afternoon sun, for its coolness seeped through her dress. It made her hyperaware of the heat from Sicarius’s thigh.
“You mentioned a problem?” she asked, cringing when her voice cracked. She cleared her throat.
“Yes.”
Someone giggled in another alcove. A small creature rustled through the undergrowth beside them.
“And that problem would be...?” Amaranthe prompted.
“Your plans to kiss Mancrest.”
Amaranthe bolted up from the bench. Her tongue tangled under the assault of words that flooded into her mouth. Part of her wanted to deny any such thing, and part of her wanted to berate him for eavesdropping. All of her felt like a child caught reaching for a forbidden bag of candies. She had nothing to be guilty over though. She hadn’t betrayed Sicarius. They had no agreement of fidelity. And besides, she hadn’t said she was going to kiss Deret. She’d only been in the earliest stages of thinking maybe he might be someone with whom she could see having a relationship.
She settled for crossing her arms over her chest and saying, “How long were you skulking about the gardens, spying on us?”
He gazed up at her. The deepening twilight hid the nuances of his features, and she couldn’t tell if anything other than his usual mask occupied his face. “What do you consider ‘long’?”
“A period of time during which a normal, considerate person would feel ashamed for listening in on someone else’s conversation.”
Sicarius did not answer.
Amaranthe sighed and dropped her hands. “What are you doing out here? Checking up? Do you still believe Deret is a threat to me?”
“No.”
Crickets sang to each other in the shrubs while Amaranthe waited for him to explain further.
“I do not like you seeing him,” he finally said.
“Because...?”
“You know why.”
She spread her arms. “With any other man in the world, I’d be positive, but this is you. Lord General Unreadable.” Besides if it was what she thought, she wanted to hear him say it.
His sigh was so soft she might have imagined it. “It makes me jealous.”
Dear ancestors, she might have wanted him to say it, but she had not truly expected him to admit it. “But I’ve told you how I feel about you, and you chose not to do anything about it.”
“I told you why.”
Amaranthe was torn between rolling her eyes in frustration at him and being tickled it bothered him to see her having dinner with another man. She took a few steps to the fountain and leaned her hands against the damp stone rim. “Let me see if I’ve got this. You’re not willing to have a relationship with me, but you don’t want me to have a relationship with anyone else either.”
“Yes,” Sicarius said. “Is that acceptable?”
She snorted. “No, it’s not.”
Sicarius joined her by the fountain. “I thought not, but you raised my hopes.”
Amaranthe rubbed her face to hide a smile creeping onto her lips. She ought to be furious, but this was progress for him. Incredible to think it from a man over thirty-five years old, but he had probably never been jealous of anyone in his life, nor told a woman he cared. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to do something so frivolous as hope.”
“A recent development.” Sicarius extended his arm, a hand out to her.
She stared at it, not sure what he was offering. She tried to read his face, but the darkness hid what few cues he gave. A warm breeze whispered through, ruffling his short hair.
Amaranthe stepped toward him, and he drew her into a hug. At first, she could only stand there, shocked. Despite the chiseled muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his embrace was gentle. She grew aware of his scent, of shaving soap and weapons cleaning oil, and inhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she leaned into him and slipped her arms around his waist. Her knuckles bumped against the hilts of knives, and she smiled in bemusement. Only Sicarius would bring all his weapons to the smooching corner of the Imperial Gardens.
He lowered his head and rested his cheek against her temple. His soft exhalations warmed her neck, and heat curled through her body. She wanted to see if he might be interested in a little more than a hug, but she didn’t. He always seemed like a feral animal in moments like this, and she feared any show of enthusiasm would send him stampeding back into his den where he’d hide behind a wall of emotionless stoicism.
“You’re the only person who’s ever wanted to give me happiness,” Sicarius said.
That puzzled her until she remembered when she had said that, in her talk with Basilard the week before. “Do you eavesdrop on every conversation I have with other men?”
“You can’t call it eavesdropping just because you don’t notice me in the area.”
She snorted again. He sounded like he was enjoying himself. Probably because he had gotten away with stealing her from her evening with Deret, and she was not giving him a hard time about it. “You’re stealthier than a cat’s shadow. You can’t possibly expect me to notice you when you’re lurking.”
“Perhaps you have not been assiduous enough with your training.”
“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for the fact that you’re a chronic eavesdropper.”
“What did you expect from an assassin?” he asked, tone teasing—or as close to it as he got.
Sicarius drew back, and Amaranthe caught his wrists before he could step away completely.
“We haven’t resolved anything, you know,” she said.
He extricated one hand and pointed to the bench. He probably wanted to sit and discuss the situation, as if it were some battle plan they were concocting. Shaking her head, she returned to her seat.
“Just to be clear,” Amaranthe said, “this jealousy of yours, it arises from the fact that you’d like to be...uhm...” She groped for a word. With anyone else, she would say lovers, but that implied emotions she doubted he would ever admit to—if he could feel them at all. “...Bed friends,” she said, then rolled her eyes. Lovers would have been better. “It’s not just some territorial dog-peeing-on-a-lamp-post thing, right?”
“Bed friends?”
Yes, he probably thought she was silly because she didn’t simply say what she meant, but, curse him, he wasn’t saying what he meant either.
“Are you voting for that one or mocking the term?” Amaranthe asked.
“Yes.”
Someday she was going to learn not to give him those sorts of questions. “Somehow, I think things would be going easier for me if I’d stayed on the hill, drinking Deret’s wine.”
“You like a challenge.”
She grew aware of the warmth of his thigh again. “Would it truly be so detrimental if we...were a we? If it’s about the men being jealous that two out of the six people in the group get to have...bed friends, that’s not really a problem when we’re in the city, right? They can go off and find their own partners. They wouldn’t even need to know. You’re about as demonstrative as a rock, and I think I can manage to keep my hands off of you while the others are around.”
“Really,” he said dryly.
Though she doubted Sicarius would fail to miss spies in the bushes, she lowered her voice to a whisper to say, “If it’s about Sespian, I can understand you not wanting more obstacles between you two, but it would be my choice. Even if he does still have feelings, which is unlikely.”
“You might decide he’s a better choice.”
“Oh, I’m certain he is.” Amaranthe grinned, though the deepening darkness probably hid it. “But, as you pointed out, I like a challenge. Why would I want to spend time with some adoring, warm youngster when I could have a stiff, aloof assassin whose idea of romance involves throwing knives and running up stairs together?”
“That’s not romance; that’s training.”
“Is there a difference for you?”
“Slight.”
Sicarius stood, breaking the contact between them.
Amaranthe sighed. Cool evening air whispered past her arms, and dew-touched grass flicked at her bare toes. “I guess this means you’re not going to demonstrate what that difference might be?”
“Not until this is over.”
“This being our...exoneration? And you having a chance to talk with Sespian?”
“The latter in particular.”
Amaranthe fought down a grumble. So, she got him if she found a way to put him and Sespian together, so he could have his chance to explain everything to his son. Setting that up had always been her intent, but she was not sure how long it would take.
She supposed she ought to find it encouraging that Sicarius cared enough about righting things with Sespian not to want to steal his girl, but, cursed ancestors, she wasn’t his girl. And he had surely gotten over that fleeting infatuation by now anyway. He had been drug-addled at the time after all.
“In the meantime,” Amaranthe said, “I get to spend my nights sitting chastely in the team hideout?” How...wholesome.
“We could add an evening training session to your regimen.”
She groaned and dropped her head in her hands. “You have a disturbing sense of humor.”
A long moment passed before he said, “Offer a proposition.”
“I don’t know.” Amaranthe shrugged helplessly. “I can wait. I just need to know.... Well, we’ve never even kissed. How am I supposed to know if all this is worth it?”
She winced as soon as the words came out. She hadn’t meant to imply that he wasn’t worth waiting for, just that she didn’t know if they’d actually have a physical connection when they actually—
“Worth it?” Sicarius asked, sounding, for the first time she could recall, offended.
Amaranthe groaned. She was making a mess of this.
She stretched out an apologetic hand. Sicarius took it and pulled her off the bench. Her feet tangled, and she stumbled into him. His other arm came around her, and he pulled her against him with none of his earlier gentleness.
He wouldn’t hurt her—at least she didn’t think he would—but her heart quickened, a jolt of concern coursing through her. Maybe she had pushed him too far. The arm wrapped around her tightened, mashing her against his chest. The fabric of his shirt did nothing to soften the ridges of granite muscle beneath it, and the thought crossed her mind that if she ever truly did anger him, all her training would be no use.
Amaranthe swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, though she was not sure whether she meant to apologize or blurt some sort of bravado. It didn’t matter. His mouth found hers, open, demanding, and she forgot about talking. And breathing.
The kiss crackled with intensity, and she thought of the hull of that fortress, its electrical charge knocking her on her backside. She wriggled her arms around him and returned the kiss.
His fingers tangled in her hair, caressing the back of her neck. An ache grew inside, and her toes curled around the edges of her sandals. She thought of kicking them off, of kicking everything off and—
Sicarius released her and stepped back, leaving her stunned and breathless, her heart galloping in place behind her ribs. Then, without a word, he strode away.
Amaranthe, legs wobbly, collapsed on the bench. “He’s right,” she croaked. “It is different than training.”