“I don’t need—”
“Wrong tactic,” Imogen lectures. “‘Thank you’ is appropriate.”
“I’m not thanking her,” she seethes, her eyes narrowing on me. “He’d be here if not for you.”
“That’s some bullshit!” Imogen snaps. “Xaden ordered—”
“You’re right,” I interrupt. “He would. And I miss him every single day. And because of the love I have for him, it’s okay that you hate me. You can think whatever you need to about me if it gets you through the day, Sloane. But you’re going to train. You’re going to accept help.”
“If it’s Malek’s will that I join my brother, then so be it. Liam didn’t need help,” she retorts, but there’s a touch of fear in her eyes that lets me know most of this is bluster. “He made it on his own.”
“No, he didn’t,” Imogen argues. “Violet saved his life during War Games. He fell off Deigh’s back, and it was Violet and Tairn who flew after him and caught him.”
Sloane’s lips part.
“Here’s the deal.” I take a step closer to Sloane. “You’re going to train so you don’t get yourself killed. Not with me. I don’t need to be part of your development era. But you will meet with Imogen every single day if that’s what she wants, because I have something you want.”
“I highly doubt that.” She crosses her arms, but the effect is ruined by the rapid swelling of her eye.
“I have fifty of the letters Liam wrote for you.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh shit.” Imogen’s head jerks toward mine. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I don’t look away from Sloane. “And at the end of every week that you attend and participate in whatever Imogen thinks you need, I’ll give one of them to you.”
“All of his things were burned,” Sloane sputters. “They were sacrificed to Malek as they should be!”
“I’ll definitely apologize to Malek when we meet,” I assure her. “If you want his letters, you’ll train for them.”
Her face turns a mottled shade of red. “You’d keep my brother’s letters from me? If they still exist, they’re mine. You really are a piece of work.”
“In this case, I think Liam would more than approve.” I shrug. “It’s up to you, Sloane. Show up, train, live, and get a letter a week. Or don’t.” Without waiting for whatever snarky response she can come up with, I turn and leave, walking back toward where Rhiannon is waiting with the upper years of our squad.
“You. Are…” Imogen shakes her head as she catches up to me. “I see it now.”
“What?” I ask.
“Why Xaden fell for you.”
I scoff.
“Truthfully.” She puts her hands up. “You’re fucking clever. Way more clever than I gave you credit for. I bet you keep him constantly annoyed.” A smile beams across her face. “How glorious.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“And you got Sloane to agree to show up tomorrow morning after chores,” she tells me. “It was a risky move, but it worked.”
Now I’m the one smiling.
Jesinia brings me The Unabridged History of the First Six the next day, which is not only a three-hundred-year-old text but marked Classified in the endpapers, and I keep my side of the deal, handing over The Fables of the Barren.
Then I hide away at every available second to read her book, when we’re not being lectured by Professor Grady about our inability to check our egos or getting what feels like pointless Battle Briefs.
But while it goes into detail about the complex interpersonal relationships of the First Six, and even a little of their battle experience during the Great War, it simply labels the enemy as General Daramor and our allies as the isle kingdoms.
Not exactly helpful.
The book Jesinia gives me on Saturday is The Sacrifice of Dragonkind, by one of Kaori’s predecessors, and goes into why Basgiath was chosen for the location of the wards.
“Green dragons, especially those descending from the line of Cruaidhuaine, have an especially stable connection to magic, which some believe is a result of their more reasonable, defensive nature,” I repeat in a whisper as I pack to head to Samara that night.
There’s absolutely nothing that could ruin my evening. Not when I’m about to see Xaden in the morning.
My eyes widen when I open the door and find Varrish standing there instead of Bodhi, flanked by his two henchmen, and immediately remind myself to thank Xaden for the wards that deny him entry. A quick step backward puts me out of his reach.
“Relax, Sorrengail.” He smiles like he didn’t nearly kill me with his little punishment. “I just came by to check your pack and walk you out to Tairn.”
I slip my pack from my shoulders and hold it out to him, careful not to let him touch my skin so he can’t slip through the wards. Then I keep my eyes locked on his henchmen as they dump my belongings instead of glancing to my bookcase to be sure my classified tome is hidden.
“It’s clear,” the woman says, and she’s kind enough to put my things away.
