Men had been underestimating me my whole life.
Never again.
I stepped toward the invisible line he’d drawn on the wooden planks. “Give me the dagger and we’ll see.”
Tadgh gave a startled laugh. “I like this one. She’s vicious.”
Rían flicked his wrist. A dagger appeared in his palm—not the emerald one from yesterday but the one he’d used on me the night before I died. A night I wanted to forget. He flipped it into the air, catching the blade between his thumb and forefinger, and held it toward me. “Go on, then. Stab me with it.”
I caught the hilt, cold yet surprisingly light as my fingers wrapped around it.
I thought of my sister.
I thought of how much Rían had let me down.
“Like I said. You don’t have it in—”
I plunged the thing into his bicep, all the way to the bone. My stomach lurched when I saw his shirtsleeve blooming red, but somehow, I managed to smirk. “You were saying?”
Rían’s eyes went black as he dragged the knife from his flesh, blood dripping down the blade. “You ruined my feckin’ shirt.”
Rían and his blasted shirts. Perhaps I’d find his room later and take a dagger to the whole bloody lot.
The thought made me smile.
“You.” Rían shoved Tadhg’s shoulder, pushing him toward the door. “Out.”
“And miss this? Not a feckin’ hope. I must say, until this exact moment, my day has been shite. Ruairi’s going to keel over when he hears—”
Rían flicked his wrist, and Tadhg disappeared. The dagger gleamed at his side, drops of deep red collecting on the wicked tip. Drip. Drip. Dripping onto the floor.
His head tilted, the gash on his arm already beginning to heal as his lips quirked into an uneven smile. “Feel better now?”
A little, actually. Who would’ve thought stabbing someone would be so cathartic? “I’d feel better if I’d stabbed you in the heart.”
Brushing a curl from my cheek, Rían eased forward to whisper, “Get in line, my little viper. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
23
When Rían pulled away,I wasn’t disappointed.
Not at all.
Not in the slightest.
Relieved. That’s what I was.
Especially when he turned and started for the door. “Are you hungry? Because I am famished.”
Hunger. That’s what the clawing ache in my belly must be. After all, I hadn’t eaten in six months. “I suppose even hostages need to eat.”
With a flick of his wrist, a clean blue shirt replaced his soiled one. “Would you prefer widow fingers or orphan ears?”
You are a hostage, Aveen.Do. Not. Smile.
“Surprise me.”
The kitchen was on the lowest level, down the hall from the parlor and study. The sounds of pots and pans clanging, and the savoury smell of bacon grew stronger as we approached.