His eyes lingered on her for a moment before he lifted his glass and murmured, “To us.” The sound of his voice was enough to make her skin heat, but the look in his eyes as he said it, the curve of that divine mouth … He was a weapon, too. A beautiful, deadly weapon.
He leaned over the edge of the table, pinning her to the spot with his stare. A challenge—and an intimate invitation.
Gods above and Wyrd save me.
She actually needed to take a long sip from her wine this time. “It’s going to take more than a few sultry glances to make me your willing slave, Archer. You should know better than to try the tricks of your trade on me.”
He let out a low, rumbling laugh that she felt in her core. “And I think you know well enough to realize when I’m not actually using them. If I were, then we would have left the restaurant already.”
“That’s a bold, bold claim. I don’t think you’d want to go head-to-head with me when it comes to tricks of the trade.”
“Oh, I want to do a lot of things with you.”
She’d never been so grateful to see a servant in her life, and never realized that a bowl of soup could be so immensely interesting.
Since she’d dismissed her carriage just to spite Chaol and back up her insinuation, Celaena wound up in Archer’s carriage after dinner. The meal itself had been pleasant enough—talk of old acquaintances, the theater, books, the miserable weather. All comfortable, safe topics, though he’d kept looking at her like she was his prey and this was one long hunt.
They sat beside each other on the bench of the carriage, close enough that she could smell whatever fine cologne he wore—an elegant, tantalizing blend that made her think of silk sheets and candlelight. So she turned her mind to what she was about to do.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Celaena glanced out the small window to see a familiar, beautiful townhouse. Archer looked at her and gently twined her fingers with his before raising her hand to his lips. It was a soft, slow kiss that burned through her. He murmured onto her skin. “Do you want to come inside?”
She swallowed hard. “Don’t you want a night off?” This was not what she’d expected. And … and this was not what she wanted, flirting aside.
He lifted his head but still held her hand, his thumb caressing small circles into her flame-hot skin. “It’s immensely different when it’s my choice, you know.”
Someone else might have missed it, but she’d also grown up without choices, and recognized the glimmer of bitterness. She eased her hand out of his. “Do you hate your life?” Her words were barely more than a whisper.
He looked at her—truly looked at her, as though he somehow hadn’t seen her until just now. “Sometimes,” he said, and then his eyes shifted to the window behind her and the townhouse beyond it. “But someday,” he went on, “someday, I’ll have enough money to pay off Clarisse forever—to really be free—and live on my own.”
“You’d leave behind being a courtesan?”
He gave her a half smile that was more real than any expression she’d seen him give tonight. “By that point, I’ll either be rich enough that I won’t ever have to work, or old enough that no one will want to hire me.”
She had a flicker of memory from a time when, just for a moment, she’d been free; when the world had been wide open and she’d been about to enter it with Sam at her side. It was a freedom that she was still working for, because even though she’d tasted it only for a heartbeat, it had been the most exquisite heartbeat she’d ever experienced.
She took a steadying breath and looked him in the eye. It was time.
“The king sent me to kill you.”
Chapter 11
His training with the assassins must have paid off, because Archer was across the carriage and brandishing a hidden dagger between them before she could blink. “Please,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling in uneven patterns. “Please, Laena.” She opened her mouth, ready to explain everything, but he was gasping down breaths, his eyes wide. “I can pay you.”
A small, wretched part of her was fairly smug at the sight of him cowering. But she held up her hands, showing him she was unarmed—at least as far as he could see. “The king thinks you’re part of a rebel movement that’s interrupting his agenda.”
A harsh, barked laugh—so raw that none of the smooth, lovely man was even recognizable in the sound. “I’m not part of any movement! Wyrd damn me, I might be a whore, but I’m not a traitor!” She kept her hands where he could see them, and opened her mouth to tell him to shut up, sit down, and listen. But he went on. “I don’t know anything about a movement like that—I haven’t even heard of anyone who’d dare try to get in the way of the king. But—but …” His panting evened out. “If you spare me, I can feed you information about a group that I know is starting to gather power in Rifthold.”
“The king is targeting the wrong people?”
“I don’t know,” he said quickly, “but this group … this one, he’d probably want to know more about. It seems like they recently learned that the king might be planning some new horror for us all—and they want to try to stop him.”
If she were a nice, decent person, she’d tell him to take the time to calm himself, to right his mind. But she wasn’t a nice, decent person, and his panic was giving his tongue free rein, so she let him go on.
“I’ve only heard my clients whispering about it, every now and then. But there’s a group that’s formed, right here in Rifthold, and they want to put Aelin Galathynius back on Terrasen’s throne.”
Her heart stopped beating. Aelin Galathynius, the lost heir of Terrasen.
“Aelin Galathynius is dead,” she breathed.
Archer shook his head. “They don’t think so. They say she’s alive, and that she’s raising an army against the king. She’s looking to reestablish her court, to find what’s left of King Orlon’s inner circle.”
She just stared at him, willing her fingers to unclench, willing air into her lungs. If it were true … No, it wasn’t true. If these people actually claimed to have met the heir to the throne, then she had to be an imposter.
Was it mere coincidence that Nehemia had mentioned Terrasen’s court that morning? That Terrasen was the one force capable of standing against the king—if it could get to its feet again, with or without the true heir? But Nehemia had sworn to never lie to her; if she’d known anything, she would have said it.
Celaena closed her eyes, though she was aware of Archer’s every movement. In the darkness, she pulled herself together, shoved down that desperate, foolish hope until nothing but an ageless fear blanketed it again.
She opened her eyes. Archer was gaping at her, his face white as death.
“I have no intention of killing you, Archer,” she said. He sagged against the bench, releasing his grip on the dagger. “I’m going to give you a choice. You can fake your own death right now and flee the city before dawn. Or I can give you until the end of the month—four weeks. Four weeks to discreetly get your affairs in order; I assume you have money tied up in Rifthold. But the time comes at a cost: I’ll keep you alive only if you can get me information about whatever this Terrasen rebel movement is—and whatever they know about the king’s plans. At the end of the month, you will fake your death, and you will leave this city, go someplace far away, and never use the name Archer Finn again.”