bloodbound are?” His voice was very quiet. “People speak out against the King and then they vanish. Everyone knows how it works.”
“I have never done that.”
“Have you?”
“No, damn you, I have begged Erec to keep me away from those missions, and if you don’t think that was a sacrifice, you haven’t ever owed him a favor. I hunt woodspawn. I save the lives people like you are too weak to protect. That’s all.”
“But you are the King’s bloodbound,” he went on quietly, relentlessly. “You serve him and support his rule, even if you let the other bloodbound kill for you and be your sin-eaters.”
“You support his rule,” she snapped. “And wear silks and live in palaces because of it.”
“So now I’m not a prisoner? That’s lovely. Do you mind if I get up and leave now?”
Rachelle was drawing her hand back to strike him before she even knew what she was doing. Then she saw him bracing himself. Feeling sick, she dropped her hands. How had they come to this so quickly?
“You know what I am,” she said. “You knew when we were in my village and you said—” She couldn’t force the words out. “I have saved your life how many times now, and you still don’t trust me?”
“You’ve said how many times that it’s only because I’m useful?”
He did have a point there.
“Why are you so desperate to hate me?” she asked quietly. “Why now?”
His mouth tightened and he looked away from her. Then he said quietly, “Because I am terrified to trust you.” He let out a shaky laugh. “I was ready for any kind of jailer but you.”
And the worst thing was, she understood. She had told him, right from the start, that she was a bloodbound and dangerous, that she was his jailer and didn’t want to protect him. He was only trying to listen to her. And yet now—even now, he was biting his lip and looking sideways at her.
“You shouldn’t trust me,” she said. “You shouldn’t.”
He looked suddenly distressed. “Rachelle—”
“Do you know who was the woodwife who trained me, whom I killed to save my own life? She was my aunt. I loved her more than my own mother. She told me and she told me to be careful in the woods, but I thought I was clever enough to speak with a forestborn and outwit him. So he marked me. And I was too scared and ashamed to tell her until the last day, and when I did— When I finally ran to her for help, the forestborn had gotten there first.”
Then her throat closed up, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She had spent so long trying so hard not to think of that day, but the memories were as sharp as ever and they shredded through her.
“He took his time. There was blood everywhere.” She could smell it even now, and her stomach roiled. “Do you know, when people are cut up enough, they don’t look human anymore? They look like . . . like dolls that were sewn by a monster. But she was still alive. She saw me, and she whimpered.
“Then the forestborn said he’d found a worthy sacrifice for me. I couldn’t move. He said this was the bargain I had made, and she whimpered again. He said he could make her live for days longer if he wanted. I would die screaming of the mark and her agony would go on and on before he let her die. Or I could kill her quickly and live.
“So I did.” Rachelle clenched her teeth for a moment, then went on, “She still tried to escape. Do you see this scar?” She held up her hand, showing him the tiny white mark in her palm. “She stabbed me in the hand with a needle—he’d found her making charms; there was thread everywhere—but she was so weak. And so horrible. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I hated her the way you hate a spider when you’re killing it. I cut her throat and I hated her for being hurt by me.”
She dared to look at him then. Armand looked steadily back at her, his eyes solemn, and said nothing.
“Well?” she demanded. “What are you going to say? It’s all right because at least I tried to resist? Everyone tries to be good until it stops being convenient!”
“No—”
“Or are you going to tell me it was a kindness to kill her? That it wasn’t so bad, because at