right, that was the only reason she’d ever had sex—but that didn’t mean she’d do some ill-mannered, ugly lout in an alley for a few crowns.
“She’s not a prostitute, she’s my sister.” Anatol used that same perfect accent, stepping forward. “And if you keep calling her one, I’ll have to take offense.”
The man held up his hands. “Sorry, my mistake.” He narrowed his eyes and leered at her. “You don’t look much alike, though.” He poked Anatol in the chest.
“Listen, you imbecile,” Evangeline said, stepping beyond Anatol. “You’re dreaming if you think I’d ever lay hands on you, not for all the money in the world.” She gave him a sneer and a once-over designed to find him lacking. She’d perfected that look at court. “I wouldn’t touch you for anything.”
The man bristled and his friends swelled with manly indignation. The energy of the alley tensed with violence. Evangeline could feel the emotion of the men imploding. They wanted to teach her a lesson for being a female with a smart tongue and they were going to do it by pounding her flesh.
“You ain’t his sister,” the blond man spat.
“You calling me a liar?” Anatol pounced on the blond before the man could take further action. His fist connected with the blond’s cheek and he went flying backward. Pivoting to the side, Anatol caught the second in the gut, turned and kicked the other in the side of the head. It was over so fast, Evangeline could only stare.
“Where . . . where did you learn to fight like that?” she stammered, watching the three men scramble back away from him and then turn to limp down the alley.
“That was not a fight. They didn’t have the will. They didn’t really want it. They were just men out sowing their oats. It was easy to discourage them.”
She blinked, frowning. What he called discouragement, she called lots of blood.
Anatol rounded on her, cradling his hand. “Listen, princess. You need to take off your tiara right now. That attitude will only get you killed on these streets. I will only be able to protect you for so long. That’s twice now. Three times if you count Belai.” He turned and kept walking, shaking his hand once like it hurt and swearing.
She stopped and stared at Anatol’s back. Rage coursed through her veins at his reprimand, but she knew he was right. These were not the treacherous, back-biting halls of Belai. These streets were a different kind of vicious, the sort she was not groomed for. She needed to find a new set of armor, new weapons, but she was at a loss as to how to construct those things. She knew how to survive palace life. That was all.
She had no idea how to survive on these streets.
Her rage turned to cold fear and she marveled at the change in her emotion. How long had it been since she’d felt actual emotion—her own, not someone else’s? It was strong. It was horrific. She didn’t want it.
“Evangeline?”
She blinked and looked up, seeing that he’d backtracked to find her staring at a puddle in the alley, lost somewhere in her head. “You’re right.”
“What?”
“You’re right. I’m not prepared for this. I don’t know”—she motioned at the alley—“this. Oh, Blessed Joshui, I’m afraid.” She swallowed hard and pulled the frayed cuffs of her ugly dress over her hands. “I’m filled with grief and terror in equal turns. So much emotion. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything and now I’m feeling everything.” She drew a ragged breath. “I hate it. I hate it.” She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I had enough emotion of my own to hate so much.”
He stood there, looking stunned.
“Anatol, don’t look at me like I just grew another head.”
He blinked. “You did.”
She swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.” Lie . Nothing would ever be fine again. Her stomach roiled.
Anatol only kept staring at her.
Scowling, she reached out and took his
“She’s not a prostitute, she’s my sister.” Anatol used that same perfect accent, stepping forward. “And if you keep calling her one, I’ll have to take offense.”
The man held up his hands. “Sorry, my mistake.” He narrowed his eyes and leered at her. “You don’t look much alike, though.” He poked Anatol in the chest.
“Listen, you imbecile,” Evangeline said, stepping beyond Anatol. “You’re dreaming if you think I’d ever lay hands on you, not for all the money in the world.” She gave him a sneer and a once-over designed to find him lacking. She’d perfected that look at court. “I wouldn’t touch you for anything.”
The man bristled and his friends swelled with manly indignation. The energy of the alley tensed with violence. Evangeline could feel the emotion of the men imploding. They wanted to teach her a lesson for being a female with a smart tongue and they were going to do it by pounding her flesh.
“You ain’t his sister,” the blond man spat.
“You calling me a liar?” Anatol pounced on the blond before the man could take further action. His fist connected with the blond’s cheek and he went flying backward. Pivoting to the side, Anatol caught the second in the gut, turned and kicked the other in the side of the head. It was over so fast, Evangeline could only stare.
“Where . . . where did you learn to fight like that?” she stammered, watching the three men scramble back away from him and then turn to limp down the alley.
“That was not a fight. They didn’t have the will. They didn’t really want it. They were just men out sowing their oats. It was easy to discourage them.”
She blinked, frowning. What he called discouragement, she called lots of blood.
Anatol rounded on her, cradling his hand. “Listen, princess. You need to take off your tiara right now. That attitude will only get you killed on these streets. I will only be able to protect you for so long. That’s twice now. Three times if you count Belai.” He turned and kept walking, shaking his hand once like it hurt and swearing.
She stopped and stared at Anatol’s back. Rage coursed through her veins at his reprimand, but she knew he was right. These were not the treacherous, back-biting halls of Belai. These streets were a different kind of vicious, the sort she was not groomed for. She needed to find a new set of armor, new weapons, but she was at a loss as to how to construct those things. She knew how to survive palace life. That was all.
She had no idea how to survive on these streets.
Her rage turned to cold fear and she marveled at the change in her emotion. How long had it been since she’d felt actual emotion—her own, not someone else’s? It was strong. It was horrific. She didn’t want it.
“Evangeline?”
She blinked and looked up, seeing that he’d backtracked to find her staring at a puddle in the alley, lost somewhere in her head. “You’re right.”
“What?”
“You’re right. I’m not prepared for this. I don’t know”—she motioned at the alley—“this. Oh, Blessed Joshui, I’m afraid.” She swallowed hard and pulled the frayed cuffs of her ugly dress over her hands. “I’m filled with grief and terror in equal turns. So much emotion. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything and now I’m feeling everything.” She drew a ragged breath. “I hate it. I hate it.” She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I had enough emotion of my own to hate so much.”
He stood there, looking stunned.
“Anatol, don’t look at me like I just grew another head.”
He blinked. “You did.”
She swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.” Lie . Nothing would ever be fine again. Her stomach roiled.
Anatol only kept staring at her.
Scowling, she reached out and took his
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