7th of Braxos

I couldn't see anything. The dockhands in front of me were too big. I needed to be taller. Higher. With fumbling, frantic hands, I struggled out of the box-tray harness and set it on the bar, then dragged one of the bar stools over to the wall where no one would knock me over while I climbed up on it.

The crowd was chanting an incoherent mix of 'Fresh meat!' and 'Anderfield' now.

A broad shouldered, bull-necked man in an expensive burgundy silk dinner jacket was standing in the middle of the arena, bellowing something that got lost in the noise of the audience. It wasn't difficult to figure out that he was trying to get the crowd to accept this fight in place of the one that had been lost. Appeasing them.

I stared around at all the red, sweating faces, with their open mouths and their hungry eyes. Jarro was there, waving a fistful of commissary notes above his head. Men Arramy worked with leaned over the bars, trying to shove him toward his opponent at the other end of the pit.

Arramy wasn't having any of it, and shoved right back, his teeth bared in a snarl.

The man in the burgundy jacket held up his hands as if surrendering to the will of the people, then left the ring through another, smaller gate in the wall. As soon as the gate slammed shut, a bell rang, prompting a new wave of cheering from the crowd as Arramy's opponent began pacing back and forth on his side of the ring. He wasn't one of the more famous fighters, but he had managed to beat one, and it wasn't hard to figure out how. He was a mountain of a man, every bit as tall as Arramy but at least a full two stone heavier, with the thick muscles of a dock worker, all chest and arms and beefy shoulders. His smug look said he had enjoyed his taste of victory and fully intended to get another.

I swallowed hard, my gaze straying to the balcony. What if one of those patrons was Coventry? The only thing Arramy had to hide behind was that thatch of goatswood-black hair. What if that wasn't enough? What if someone recognized him -

A second bell rang, setting off a deafening crescendo in the shouting around the arena as the other man stopped waiting for the fight to begin and went swaggering across the line chalked on the concrete walls of the pit, approaching Arramy. He leered around at his fans, and then made a show of tapping Arramy politely on the shoulder.

Arramy didn't seem to notice or care. He took hold of the chute gate, shaking it, ordering the boy on the other side to let him back out, which prompted a chorus of booing.

With a smile, Man Mountain looked up at the frenzy of faces above him, then hauled off and punched Arramy in the ribs.

Or he would have, if Arramy hadn't taken a step to the right.

Mountain's fist met the bars of the gate, and he let out a roar, bending over his bloodied knuckles.

Arramy shoved away from the wall and kept going, prowling around the edge of the arena, leaving Man Mountain behind. He wasn't trying to avoid a fight. He was hunting for a way out, searching the spiky fence arcing overhead, that trapped wolf still very much present. The only other time I had seen him like that was in Orrelian's second cellar, when he had strapped himself into that chair so Orrelian could question him.

Man Mountain wrung his hand a few times, then aimed a baleful glare at Arramy's retreating figure. He opened his mouth, shouting something inaudible. The crowd went wild as he dug his feet into the sandy bottom of the pit and erupted forward, barreling straight at Arramy with the force of a freighter at full steam.

The cheering turned to boos of derision when Arramy simply dodged again, as easily as he might avoid a puddle in the street, and Man Mountain careened all the way across the arena to crash headfirst into the opposite wall. He slid to the ground and remained there in an unconscious, anticlimactic pile, much to the fury of those who had just lost money on him.

I held my breath, praying this insanity would end before anything worse happened as a pair of medics came in through one of the smaller gates, bearing a stretcher between them.

Any thought that they would let Arramy leave died when they locked him in again, banging the gate shut just as he reached it and tried to yank it open. For a moment he fought with one of the medics, catching her arm through the bars, but a bunch of the spectators began stabbing at him with lengths of sharpened bamboo, driving him back out into the ring.

The crowd wanted more, more, more, insatiable and insistent, and to my horror they fed the fresh meat to the next contestant.

This one was smaller than the first, but he was just as greedy for a win, and as Arramy stumbled back to get out of reach of the bamboo, the bell rang, and the next fighter burst through the gate at the other end of the arena.

My breath caught as Arramy whipped around to face his new opponent. His ribs were heaving as if he had been running hard, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin gleam under the light of the gas lamps.

At first I had been terrified he would win and get too much attention for it, but now I was starting to think there was more to worry about than prizefighting.

The second contestant was bouncing on the balls of his feet and boxing the air, puffing himself up and strutting like a rooster, but Arramy just rested his hands on his hips and stood with his head tipped back, visibly breathing deep and exhaling through pursed lips.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Something was very wrong. I had seen the captain take on everything from jungle predators to cannon fire, and never once had he looked so shaken, as if he were wrestling with a monster no one could see. Something told me this monster had more to do with the bars caging him in than the blustering little scrapper on the other side of the center line.

The bell rang again, signaling the beginning of the match, and Scrapper started boxing his way in Arramy's direction. It would have made me laugh if Arramy hadn't been so pale beneath his tan.

"Come on," I whispered, willing him to pull himself together. "Please... Please figure this out..." I couldn't think what else to hope for. Not fighting would only enflame the audience. Winning would only make them throw another contestant at him. He had to lose without making it look like he was trying to.

As if my words had reached him, Arramy glanced up, scanning the crowd by the door. When he caught sight of me, he froze. I made out the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the tightening of his jaw as he ground his teeth. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he faced the arena again.

With a bravado born of not knowing what sort of opponent he was about to fight, Scrapper kept coming, hopping with one foot forward, clenched fists beating the air in front of him, his mustaches quivering.

Arramy let the smaller man bounce nearly all the way around him before finally taking a slow, almost lazy swing.

Scrapper ducked like a tightly wound pop-along and came back up with a quick jab at Arramy's jaw.

Arramy blocked it, deliberately leaving his right side open, and promptly got a swift punch to the belly. He grunted and stepped back, which made the crowd start chanting Scrapper's name. That was all the encouragement Scrapper needed. He began feinting and bobbing, punching and jabbing, darting in and ducking away like some sort of possessed flea. His strategy was obvious: hit often, hit fast, and wear the other man down.

I bit my lower lip and cringed every time Scrapper found his mark, hating the resignation on Arramy's face as he brought his hands up and began defending himself while making clumsy mistakes that left him deliberately vulnerable.

But even trying to lose, Arramy wasn't exactly an easy target. There was only so much of his training he could ignore, and the fight began dragging on. Even the very focused, very eager Scrapper grew frustrated as he drove Arramy around the arena. His punches started to lag, his bounces lost their energy, and then Arramy swatted another chin shot aside just a little too hard.

He was trying to give Scrapper a decent opening at a kidney shot, but Scrapper's arm flew too wide, and his recovery was too slow. Arramy's halfhearted uppercut managed to catch Scrapper where it was supposed to, hooking right up into the man's jaw. Scrapper's head snapped back with an audible crunch. To his credit, he came around with a feeble attempt at a haymaker, but his arm flopped, limp as a wet rag. Slowly, he dropped to his knees in the sand, wavered a moment, then tipped over, collapsing in a heap at Arramy's feet.

Abruptly the stands went crazy and a new frenzy of betting broke out.

I stomped a foot on the seat of my barstool and let out a growl of frustration, then put a hand to my forehead. There was nothing I could do. No way I could make them pull Arramy from the ring, no way I could stop them from dragging Scrapper off and ringing that blasted bell.

And then I got a good look at the man who had been waiting his chance at taking the last purse of the night, and my blood stopped cold in my veins.

He was wearing a pair of tight black and white pants and nothing else, and when he stepped through the gate and into the brilliant glare of the arena lights, the snake on his neck glittered with metallic silver paint. He was smooth, his body sleek and well-muscled, his movement easy, confidence oozing out of him as he held his arms wide, greeting the people in the stands.

There was a wave of shouting and whistling and stomping. The crowd liked Snakeneck. Wagers were flying thick and fast in his favor, black and white flags waving.

A shudder of apprehension slipped down my spine, pooling in my stomach.

Arramy ran a thumb over a scrape on his jaw, checked to see if he was bleeding, then eyed Snakeneck through a speculative squint.

Snakeneck flashed a delighted grin as he walked up to the center line, all nonchalance and confidence. I couldn't make out his voice above the racket of the audience, but his lips formed the words, "Hello, old man."

Shaking his head, Arramy started forward just as the bell rang the second time.

Snakeneck was across the line like lightning, and he struck just as hard, tackling Arramy head on and delivering a brutal one-two punch to Arramy's middle.

But that was just window dressing, an assertion of dominance to get the spectators riled up. While Arramy gasped for air and bent double, Snakeneck let him go and backed off, a mocking snarl marring his pretty face. He stalked in a circle, making taunting passes while Arramy regained his breath.

As soon as Arramy began to straighten, Snakeneck attacked again, aiming a wicked kick to Arramy's ribs designed to break bone and rupture spleen.

Arramy's eyes flashed with annoyance as he dodged the hit, giving an accidental glimpse of the combat-taught speed and agility he had been trying to hide.

Snakeneck smirked, his eyebrows rising. He walked in a little half-circle, then wheeled and came at Arramy, grappling with him, locking him into a series of swift, deadly jabs that had Arramy stumbling backward, arms up in self-defense as Snakeneck proceeded to drive him across the width of the arena, plowing blow upon blow into Arramy's unguarded sides, never giving him a chance to break away. The crowd screamed their approval, finally getting what they were paying for.

Then, just before Arramy came up against the opposite wall of the pit, Snakeneck landed a savage punch to his sternum that bent him double again. This time, Snakeneck stepped neatly to the side, looped a brawny arm around Arramy's neck from behind, and dragged him up into a strangle hold.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, unable to stifle a sob as Arramy gagged and scrabbled for purchase on Snakeneck's arm.

Snakeneck tipped his head back, teeth curving in a feral smile as he began searching the stands, hauling Arramy with him until they were both facing the doorway. Then that coal-black gaze landed on me, and his smile widened. He wrenched Arramy up like he was displaying a trophy for me to see. Then he leaned in, his lips moving in a fierce whisper against Arramy's temple.

Arramy was staring up at me, and as Snakeneck spoke, he stopped struggling. My mouth went dry. He wasn't giving up. He had turned some part of himself off. His eyes went dull, ice sliding into those pale eyes. I shook my head, dread turning my knees to water, but it was too late. Whatever poison Snakeneck was speaking, it was reaching a place nothing else had.

Snakeneck never finished what he had to say. Arramy suddenly planted his feet, flexed his legs, and powered them both backwards into the wall of the arena. Snakeneck grunted as his shoulders took the brunt of the blow. He tried to hang on, but he wasn't fighting the quiet, mild-mannered dockworker anymore. Arramy twisted, driving his elbow around into Snakeneck's ribs, once, twice, breaking the strangle, then he chopped a hand upward between his neck and Snakeneck's arm, and in one smooth, efficient move, he was free, wrenching Snakeneck's wrist outward until it popped.

With a bark of pain, Snakeneck tried to yank away, but Arramy still had a grip on Snakeneck's broken hand, and with a swift jerk he pulled Snakeneck straight into a brutal punch to the face that shattered Snakeneck's nose and tore his lips apart against his teeth. Swearing, Snakeneck hobbled sideways, his fingers rapidly filling with blood as he cradled his ruined mouth, but Arramy wasn't done. He took a handful of Snakeneck's hair, held him captive, and bent to say something in the younger man's ear.

Snakeneck went white as a sheet beneath the river of scarlet splattering his skin.

Arramy gave Snakeneck's head a quick yank, and Snakeneck began nodding. Quickly.

Arramy stood to his full height. For a moment he looked down at Snakeneck, regarding him with that frigid detachment I had seen once before, outside the Moonflower Motel in NimK. Then he let Snakeneck go with a shove, turned, and walked to the nearest gate.

The fight had flipped heads so fast the crowd had been shocked into silence. It was so quiet the rattle of the keys in the lockplate could be heard as the doorboy opened the gate.

The hinges creaked. Metal clanged against metal.

Then someone - the same dockman who had dragged Arramy into the arena - began chanting "An-der-field! An-der-field!" and the rest of the audience burst into uproar, shouting and clapping and stomping, surging around the entry chute. Behind me tables were overturned, glass shattered, and a tussle broke out, but I didn't care. I stood on tiptoe, trying to follow Arramy's progress up the chute, my heart in my throat as he emerged from the other end and was promptly mobbed.

Just like I could only watch when they shoved him into the pit, I could only watch as a big man in a tailored white dinner jacket and fawn trousers came down from the balcony.

Arramy stiffened as the mob parted to let the man through. But there was no recognition in the big man's eyes, only the shine of greed above a big, fleshy smile as he slapped a ham-sized hand over Arramy's shoulder and pulled him in close. Arramy listened, and for a split second I thought perhaps he looked in my direction, but then he shook his head. The big man kept smiling as if he wasn't deterred by a no at all and held out a black velvet bag.

Arramy hesitated. Then he said something and lifted a hand to take the prize purse.

The big man jerked it out of reach, toying with it, making Arramy stand there a beat too long with his hand out. When Arramy glanced away, the big man opened his pudgy mouth wide on a large, booming laugh, and finally dropped the purse into Arramy's waiting palm.

I closed my eyes, my stomach churning. At least it was over. All I could do now was pray like mad the Coventry hadn't been watching, and no one had recognized Arramy. Pulling in a breath, I ground my teeth together and climbed down off the bar stool. Only to discover that Nalle's box tray had been knocked off the bar. Trinkets and baubles, candies and ribbons were strewn across the floor, trampled under several hundred milling feet.

For a count of five, I could only stare around, watching all my extra money disappear, stomped flat and kicked about. The loss would have to come out of my take. There was no way I could have made enough to pay for all those things. I glanced down at the money bag Nalle had pinned to my skirt. I didn't get farther than that before someone shouted that there was a free pint for everyone upstairs, and the mob began streaming past, heading off to drink away the evening. I shrank out of the way in a corner and would have happily stayed there until they were all gone, but then a group of the cannery girls came reeling past, and Tarris spotted me.

"Ey! Come on, Larra, you better get yourself upstairs!"

I shook my head. "Thank you, but I'm not really interested -"

Pellan came to a stop and raised a thick eyebrow. "She means you better get upstairs before the wanton hoards start throwing their nickers at your man. Come on."

Avan was nodding as she stepped up and took hold of my arm, pulling me out of the corner.

"Wanton... hoards?" I managed, brow wrinkling as Tarris joined Avan, tugging me into step between them. There would be no resisting, they were going to help me whether I wanted it or not.

"Hoards," Pellan provided firmly. "Come from all over. It's as much of a sport as the games. Better stake your claim now before they start sharpening their claws. Many a happy home has been ripped apart by a big win in the arena."

I closed my mouth and let Avan and Tarris trundle me through the narthex and up the stairs to the Taproom. I couldn't very well explain that there wasn't a happy anything to tear apart, and I had no actual claim to stake on the man they thought I was married to. I didn't even know what to say to the man they thought I was married to. I wasn't even sure I could look him in the eye.

He hadn't wanted to come, but he had because I hadn't listened, and now he was at the center of a dangerous amount of attention. Wanton hoards were the least of our worries.

The Taproom's dining area was full to bursting and loud with conversation and music. Tarris split off to find Jarro, and Avan joined the queue for the honey ale, but Pellan kept dragging me in her wake, shoving and pushing to make a path through the crush of people clamoring for drinks at the bar, then bullying her way down the length of the room to the equally thick crush of people gathered to watch something on the stage.

Unable to see over the hulking shoulders of the dockmen, I didn't get a look at what she was aiming for until a cableman ducked out of range of Pellan's pointy elbow, and a gap opened up in front of me.

Time ground to a halt, everything reducing to that single moment. My heart gave a painful throb.

Ham Hands was on stage, laughing and grinning and clapping along with a rather bawdy tune. Around him, a bunch of saucy, scantily clad dancing girls were strutting to the music. As they strutted, they teased the man sitting on a bar stool in the middle of the stage. And one of them - a pretty, willowy girl with brightly painted lips, creamy skin, and long, slender legs - had her arm draped ever so elegantly over his shoulders. She was smiling down at him, playing with the waves of dark hair falling across his forehead.

That was all I could take in before a cruel, cold little voice began whispering, deep down, See? You're not his type. What do you have to offer next to that? You've got nothing. You're just a short orphan, you've got callouses and tired eyes, with your hair always falling in your face. You're unnecessary. A liability... an obligation... dead weight... I looked away, my vision swimming. Suddenly, I just wanted to leave. I needed to run before I had to see any more. There had to be a way out. An exit. He wouldn't even realize I was gone. It would hurt so much less that way.

Too late. Pellan had already lifted her voice, strident and shrill over the hubbub of the audience, "Ey! Barraban! His missus is here!"

I whirled to stare at her, horrified. Instead of making things better, it felt much more like I was so helpless and forgettable that I had to beg for scraps where I clearly wasn't wanted. Forget running, now I wanted to shrink into a knothole and never come out.

But there was no hiding. The big, lumbering dock hands on either side of us took note and started shuffling out of the way, clearing a space around me with a rumble of good-natured ribbing: "Go on, girl, get up there!" and "Let's get a proper look at you!" And then broad, hard-working hands were around my hips, turning me and lifting me to sit on the edge of the stage. I got a blurry look at a pleasant, blunt-nosed face before the ribbing turned to crows of "Oh, ho! You got his attention, Brassyn, better watch out!"

And then a familiar pair of heavy work boots thumped to a stop next to me, an equally familiar long, tan arm reached down to pull me all the way up onto my feet and away from the crowd, and then Arramy was looking down at me, searching my eyes, his own stormy with some unreadable emotion.

His voice was rough. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, frowning. He was going to have a nasty bruise on his jaw, and the corner of his lip was bloodied. The rest of him was probably in bad shape, too. "Are you?"

His eyes darkened. Then, to my surprise, he drew me up against him and wrapped his arms around me, his chest rising and falling on a deep breath, his chin coming to rest on the top of my head. For a split second I forgot all about my stung pride and self-doubt. There was only the beat of his heart, the strength of his hands, and the way the solid lines of his body met the softer curves of mine.

Ham Hands - Barraban, it would seem - edged up on us, his words sickeningly sweet. "Are you sure you won't reconsider, Mr. Anderfield? I could make it very worth your while -"

He was cut off by a bunch of stomping and hooting from the audience below us. They were growing bored. "Ey! Come on, we wanna see some action! Get on with things!"

And then, from somewhere off to our right, "That's right! Give us a kiss, then!"

Another shout of "Give us a kiss!" was all it took. The call was taken up in a wave of "Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!"

I froze, my mouth going bone dry, my palms suddenly slick. Arramy stiffened and lifted his head, turning to look out at the sea of hooting, jeering dock hands, his muscles tensing for a fight.

As he moved, though, I caught a glimpse of a group of well-dressed men lurking in the darkness of the wings, smoking cigars and drinking beer. They were watching us with bland interest.

I swallowed, something in me withering and going cold. Those men had been the shadowy figures on the balcony. If any of them were Coventry, they would have access to the Coventry's wanted bulletins of Arramy and I.

They had to see Kaen and Larra Anderfield instead: two hard-working, run of the mill people just trying to get by, just like it said on their papers. Two married people.

"It's alright," I whispered, tipping my head back to look up at him. Part of me balked, insisting that this really wasn't alright. Not like this. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, as a bit of performance for an audience. This wasn't supposed to be part of the pretend. But I ignored that, shoving it deep into the box with the rest of my stolen girlhood dreams.

At the sound of my voice, Arramy snapped back around, his gaze flying to mine. "What?"

I brought my hand up to cradle the side of his face and smiled a little. Let them translate that how they liked. "It's just a kiss."

He went still. His eyes homed in on my lips. One second passed. Another. Then he nodded slightly, his throat moving. "Aye. Aye... Just a..." he dipped his head and slanted his mouth across mine.

It was barely a peck, there and then gone, butterfly soft. But he didn't pull away. His lashes drifted shut, his lips parted on an indrawn breath, and then, ever so carefully, he kissed me again.

That stern, unforgiving mouth wasn't hard at all. His lips were supple and warm, and he was being gentle, almost tentatively asking for more. I couldn't help it. All on their own, my hands slid up to the back of his head, my fingers spearing through his hair. I didn't have any idea what I was doing, but I kissed him back.

With a broken groan, he slid his arms around my waist and lifted me off the floor, his kisses deepening when I didn't stop.

I couldn't stop.

Everything else had disappeared. The crowds, the Coventry, Barraban, everything. There wasn't enough air. My hands were shaking, my heart thundering so hard my chest ached. I had thought I would have to fake it, but there was nothing to fake. All I knew was that I was kissing Arramy, and he was kissing me like he wanted to, like he wanted me, and the line between pretend and real evaporated into thin air.

There were whistles and howls from somewhere in the distance, and then, abruptly, Arramy broke away. Breathing hard, he held me for a moment, his eyes shut tight, his brows set in a low, fierce frown. Then, he lowered me to my own two feet and turned to look at Barraban.

"I appreciate the offer, and the... beer... but I'll be taking my leave, now. We've got an early morning."

Barraban's mouth smiled, but his eyes were shifty, gleaming just a little too bright as he laughed. "Right. An early morning," he said, loud, with an exaggerated wink out at the audience that sparked a few guffaws and giggles. Then he sketched a comical bow. "Well, no one ever said I wasn't a romantic at heart. Go! Enjoy your evening!"

Arramy nodded, but he was already moving, making for the wings on the side of the stage nearest the exit to the alley.

Still breathless, I had to make an extreme effort to pull myself together and keep up with him on my wobbly legs. I might have smiled at a few of the performers backstage. Mumbled something to Nalle, who was standing by the door to the hallway. All I could think was... nothing. I had kissed Arramy. Arramy had kissed me. That was where my mind stopped, and the rest blurred together in a crushing riot of emotions. When I finally glanced around, we were walking down Southend Street, and the pressed tin gables of the outdoor dining pavilion stood ahead of us, gleaming a dull silver in the moonlight.

A cool night breeze ran up from the sea, tugged at my hair, undoing a few pins' worth of curl and teasing my overheated skin. It seemed to be mocking me, really, offering a tiny amount of relief after such a horrible night.

Arramy had been walking beside and a little behind me. He hadn't said anything, hadn't touched me at all since we left the Taproom, and the brush of his hand on my bare arm made me jump a little. "Can we stop for a moment?"

I kept walking, head down. Not because I was ignoring him, but because I had no idea what to say, or how to say it.

Arramy's fingers closed around my wrist. "Stop. Please, kid."

"I'm not a child," I muttered automatically, coming to a halt.

"I know," Arramy rasped. "I know that. I'm sorry... Just please... please stop walking away from me."

My limbs felt like lead weights. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to go to the apartment and let my weary bones sink into my bed. I tipped my head back and looked up at him. Waiting.

Arramy stared down at me, searching my face in the moonlight. "Say you're angry," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not angry. I'm tired." And terrified. And a fool. Such a fool. I turned and made my boots carry me forward again. We were almost there, only half a block from our front steps.

"Tell me I'm an idiot, then. Tell me I have ta sleep in the yard. Yell at me. Something. Anything."

I reached the end of our walkway. "Why should I yell at you?"

"Because -" He grated out, then heaved a frustrated breath and came striding past me up the steps, yanking the front door open and holding it wide for me, following hard on my heels as I trudged into the sitting room and began taking off my jacket.

He shut the door. "Because I'm angry at myself! Because I don't want you to accept what happened tonight like it's somehow your fault! Because I can't stand this silence from you. It's driving me mad. You are driving me mad. Say something. Please."

I hung my coat up on its peg and began taking off my apron. My fingers were trembling. Still. It's just a kiss... "I'm not angry," I repeated. Then I took a breath and faced him, arms crossed over my middle. "I'm... worried." For some reason, that last word ground its way out like it was made of sandpaper, making my throat go hot and thick.

He stood there, staring down at me, waiting, his head and shoulders outlined by the moonlight pouring through the square of window in the door.

"Fighting men have been going missing," I croaked, my voice devoid of emotion. "More than one, and as recently as this morning... There were men there, on the balcony, and again in the wings... watching us... watching you. I don't..." I trailed off, the words, I don't want to lose you coiling into a burning tangle in my chest. There was no way I could get them out into the air. They were too vulnerable, a wide-open doorway to pain. I looked to the side, my brows wrinkling as I tried to frame my thoughts adequately. "You should have let him win," I finally said, hating the quaver in my voice. "Why didn't you just let him win?"

He took a step, then another, looming over me.

"Now whoever those men are, they know you can fight -"

"I wanted to kill him, Bren." Arramy's voice broke. "What he said he would do to you..."

Somewhere in all that I had backed up against the bottom post of the banister. My pulse skipped, then became a rapid, frantic flutter against my ribs as he brought one hand up, his thumb grazing my chin just below my mouth, his fingers framing my jaw.

"Moavany knew exactly what to say to get inside my head," he whispered, his gaze roaming my features. "Exactly who to use."

A shiver raced over my skin, and my entire body swayed into his touch, my focus locking on the firm lines of his mouth, every inch of me aware of how much bigger he was, how much stronger. I wasn't afraid of that strength. I craved it, now. I wanted to taste those lips again. I wanted to know what it felt like when this steadfast, unyielding man stopped holding back.

Which was exactly why I couldn't find out.

There would be no halves about falling in love with Rathe Arramy. It wouldn't be a fling, it wouldn't be for fun. He would have all of me. Fully. Completely. He deserved someone who could love him like that. But everyone I had ever loved was gone, and in that moment, I got a good look at my own cowardice. I couldn't do it. I couldn't love Arramy only to go through losing him. It would kill me. There wasn't enough of me left.

He was staring at my lips, his eyes a warm glimmer of pewter beneath his inky lashes. He was so still. So close. His thumb slipped lower, catching beneath my chin, urging me to tip my head back little by little.

"We were acting," I blurted. Something unraveled in my middle, hot and slippery and sharp, slicing deep.

He froze.

I licked my lips. Rip it off like a tackyplaster. "The kiss. On stage. It was just pretend."

The corner of his mouth lifted, a sort of dull, wistful acceptance stealing across his face; a boy with an ancient, ragged, war-torn soul, looking in through a window at something he wasn't allowed to have. He lifted his other hand and drew a strand of my hair away from my forehead. "Aye." Then he dipped his head in a nod and let go, backing away. "Aye."

I swallowed hard and managed to turn, automatically fumbling to find the banister, one foot landing awkwardly on the next tread of the stair, then the other, and then I was climbing blindly to the loft. I stopped at the top, scrubbing the heel of my hand over my stupid, watery eyes. Then I glanced down at him.

He was standing where I had left him, head still bowed, hands resting on his hips like he didn't know where else to put them.

"Promise me you won't fight again. Please."

He nodded without looking up.

..............................

AN: *Hides*

*Mumbles behind hand* It's huge! And so much of the angst! I am sorry...

But what do you think?