Read Online Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles by Karina Cooper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karina Cooper
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eerie way his tawny gaze tended to bore through one’s social armors, but it was the most normal I’d ever seen the so-called prince appear.
When I made no move, his mouth slanted into a smile that did not reflect in the golden shade of his eyes. He had a stare reminiscent of Hawke’s in intensity.
And like Hawke, I would never be so careless as to assume Osoba harmless.
“What do you want here?” I asked, abruptly enough that he tilted his head to one side. His gaze roamed over my woolen shawl, the unstructured shape of the gown, and—with a flicker of laughter—at my boots peeking from beneath the hem, all framed in the narrow gap between door and frame that I allowed.
When it lifted again to mine, I saw within a steely determination that I had come to recognize in many of them what ran the Menagerie.
It was not for nothing that they were called whips.
Osoba made no move to push through the door, though I had little doubt he could—and in so doing, force me into an ill-advised scrap. Instead, he stood upon my stoop as though he had every right, in charge of his immediate surroundings in a manner I had never seen him so confidently display. Not even at the Menagerie.
He was strong, but Hawke had always been the greater of the two.
I did not like the parallels I drew between Osoba’s attitude and Hawke’s supreme assurance, especially when I noted the differences in the lion-tamer I had met prior and the one standing before me now. Osoba had always been somewhat particular in his attitude, but always deferential. Or rather, he had in Hawke’s presence. With no Hawke to mind him, his manner suggested that the balance of power had shifted dramatically in my absence, and I did not like what it might mean for me—or for Hawke.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “I will not invite you in,” I told him. “Get to your business and then you may leave.”
He obliged me. “I suspected your identity last night.” His gaze touched on my hair, once more its garnet hue. “I am too used to the black.”
I gritted my teeth.
“It was a simple matter to follow you to your—” his gaze flicked to the shabby door I braced more closed than not, “—home.” The thinly veiled scorn in the word stung. “You are not as careful as you should be.”
“That much is made all the more obvious by your attendance upon my stoop,” I replied, each word carved with icy precision. “Shall I engage in a bit of deduction?”
“No need,” he said over what I’d intended to be mockery and he took as rote. “I am here to speak to you about Menagerie matters. We may do so here where all who pass might hear, or we may do so inside.”
I closed the door in his face.
Maddie Ruth was not far. She leaned around the wall she’d tucked herself behind, her freckles all but faded in a white mask of fear.
I allowed her no time to panic. “Go upstairs, quickly,” I whispered, pointing up. “Wait in my boudoir and do not make a sound.” To her credit—and telling me all I needed to know of her mental state—the girl did not argue with me.
She had always feared Osoba. Enough so that she would leave me alone with him if it meant escaping his gaze.
I could not blame her. I would, however, protect her.
I strapped my weapon quickly just over my knee, where the gown would provide adequate cover. The leather abraded my softer flesh there, but I had little choice. I had not dressed for a confrontation.
Maddie Ruth took the stairs quietly enough, and given no other choice, I waited until I heard my door close softly behind the frightened girl before opening the only barrier keeping the lion prince from invading my domain.
Shabby as it was.
He possessed more faith in my amicability than I would have. I could not tell if my abrupt departure had offended him, but he had not left my stoop. I studied the set of his shoulders as he surveyed the lane beyond the rowhouses we sought refuge in. This unimpressive little street was not so
When I made no move, his mouth slanted into a smile that did not reflect in the golden shade of his eyes. He had a stare reminiscent of Hawke’s in intensity.
And like Hawke, I would never be so careless as to assume Osoba harmless.
“What do you want here?” I asked, abruptly enough that he tilted his head to one side. His gaze roamed over my woolen shawl, the unstructured shape of the gown, and—with a flicker of laughter—at my boots peeking from beneath the hem, all framed in the narrow gap between door and frame that I allowed.
When it lifted again to mine, I saw within a steely determination that I had come to recognize in many of them what ran the Menagerie.
It was not for nothing that they were called whips.
Osoba made no move to push through the door, though I had little doubt he could—and in so doing, force me into an ill-advised scrap. Instead, he stood upon my stoop as though he had every right, in charge of his immediate surroundings in a manner I had never seen him so confidently display. Not even at the Menagerie.
He was strong, but Hawke had always been the greater of the two.
I did not like the parallels I drew between Osoba’s attitude and Hawke’s supreme assurance, especially when I noted the differences in the lion-tamer I had met prior and the one standing before me now. Osoba had always been somewhat particular in his attitude, but always deferential. Or rather, he had in Hawke’s presence. With no Hawke to mind him, his manner suggested that the balance of power had shifted dramatically in my absence, and I did not like what it might mean for me—or for Hawke.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “I will not invite you in,” I told him. “Get to your business and then you may leave.”
He obliged me. “I suspected your identity last night.” His gaze touched on my hair, once more its garnet hue. “I am too used to the black.”
I gritted my teeth.
“It was a simple matter to follow you to your—” his gaze flicked to the shabby door I braced more closed than not, “—home.” The thinly veiled scorn in the word stung. “You are not as careful as you should be.”
“That much is made all the more obvious by your attendance upon my stoop,” I replied, each word carved with icy precision. “Shall I engage in a bit of deduction?”
“No need,” he said over what I’d intended to be mockery and he took as rote. “I am here to speak to you about Menagerie matters. We may do so here where all who pass might hear, or we may do so inside.”
I closed the door in his face.
Maddie Ruth was not far. She leaned around the wall she’d tucked herself behind, her freckles all but faded in a white mask of fear.
I allowed her no time to panic. “Go upstairs, quickly,” I whispered, pointing up. “Wait in my boudoir and do not make a sound.” To her credit—and telling me all I needed to know of her mental state—the girl did not argue with me.
She had always feared Osoba. Enough so that she would leave me alone with him if it meant escaping his gaze.
I could not blame her. I would, however, protect her.
I strapped my weapon quickly just over my knee, where the gown would provide adequate cover. The leather abraded my softer flesh there, but I had little choice. I had not dressed for a confrontation.
Maddie Ruth took the stairs quietly enough, and given no other choice, I waited until I heard my door close softly behind the frightened girl before opening the only barrier keeping the lion prince from invading my domain.
Shabby as it was.
He possessed more faith in my amicability than I would have. I could not tell if my abrupt departure had offended him, but he had not left my stoop. I studied the set of his shoulders as he surveyed the lane beyond the rowhouses we sought refuge in. This unimpressive little street was not so
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