Page 8 of A Thief to Die For

Not that it matters. Love is a distraction.

Dezzy raises a brow. ‘Why do you think I brought it up? Maybe I want to die in my old age in peace, knowing you and your sister are going to be okay.’

I roll my eyes.

‘Maybe I just need to help you find the right man.’

I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth. ‘No. Please don’t do that.’

Dezzy hums a beat before casting her gaze around at the tables. ‘Is there someone here who you are attracted to? Tell me, and I will go talk to them.’ She gestures to a table of men. ‘What about … Soren?’

Of course she’d go for the wolfiest guardsman and the one I have a history with. ‘Dezzy,’ I hiss, low and urgent. She lifts a finger, and my heart is dropkicked into my throat. ‘What are you doing? Stop pointing.’

‘With that amount of hair, he’s likely sufficiently virile.’

‘Dezzy!’ I inhale so sharply I choke.

‘And I’ve heard he’s the best archer among the guardsmen. A protector, that’s always good.’

I can protect myself. Too many people are turning to look at us. ‘Dezzy,’ I hiss, louder.

‘But judging by his tall height and large –’

Soren’s gaze lifts to us as she raises her hand higher. ‘Excuse me!’ she calls out.

Before I know it, I’m throwing myself across the table, hand straining to cover Dezzy’s mouth. I miss. There’s a crash of clanging dishes. The dining hall quiets, and I’m pretty sure everyone is looking at us now.

Dezzy gapes at me, stunned at my lack of decorum – this from the woman who once asked our cook if her soggy bread was baked with a heated argument. I lower myself back into my seat but lean forward so only she can hear when I speak. ‘Dezzy, don’t – and I cannot stress this enough – ever speak to Soren on my behalf. He’s …’ I allow myself the briefest of glances at the twenty-year-old and find he’s staring at me, a question in his eyes. Most days, he looks like he’s hoping I’ll forget what he did. But that’s never going to happen. By the intensity in his gaze, the parting of his lips, I’d guess today is one of those days. I can’t look away fast enough.

Dezzy scooches her chair forward. ‘He’s what?’ She grins conspiratorially. ‘Are we having secrets now?’

No. We’re not having secrets. Dezzy couldn’t keep a secret to save my life.

So I try to think of how to finish my sentence. He’s …

A mistake.

A mistake I made when I was sixteen and so flattered by Soren’s staring that I overlooked the fact that he had the emotional intelligence of a slop bucket. He didn’t like to talk much, preferred stolen kisses. It was in those moments I thought I saw his tenderness. That he had a beating heart. But what he really had was selfish ambition. He was a life-sucking drought, who thought of himself as the rain.

Our brief, not to mention secret, relationship ended abruptly two years ago, after I found Agatha’s note that she was running away with Felix. I begged Soren to help me find them, and together we persuaded the two to come home. But hours later, he sold us out to Atlas for a chance to climb the ranks. Felix was exiled. Ag was beaten by Coatl. And I was made to watch it all. I ended things with Soren and decided I was done letting my fear keep me docile.

That was the day that changed everything.

‘Soren is … an arsehole,’ I say, finally. ‘He can’t be trusted.’

Surprisingly, Dezzy seems to accept that. Although, I’m not going to wait around and see. I glance down at the mess of spilled stew on my shirt and stand. ‘I should get changed. Then I’ve got work to do.’

Dezzy’s plump face lifts, eyes serious. I half expect her to tell me to wear red. ‘You be careful, my velora.’

A warmth gathers in my belly. She hasn’t called me my love in a while. ‘Always,’ I lie.

The sun is setting when I lower myself down the makeshift ladder out of my bedroom window and slip away from the compound into the woods.

I move swiftly through the forest brush and tall grass, staying off the main road, but the men’s clothes and large hood I’ve changed into catch on branches. They make me noisy. Slow.

When I reach the eastern boundary of the Dresden camp, I crouch next to a rickety log home built around a couple of pine trees. It rises multiple floors. A literal treehouse. Once clear, I weave around more small shelters, most of them looking like one strong gust of wind could blow them down.

Long ago, Atlas decided to preserve the forest within Notting territory, both for cover and to draw in wildlife for extra food. Except the ‘no-logging’ rule only applies to the Dresden, forcing them to use disintegrating scraps of wood to construct their homes or risk leaving militia territory to gather something else to build with. It also means the only way the forest dwellers can cook their food and not freeze to death in the winter, is to burn coal: coal they have to earn by working in the mine, in addition to the coal they need to extract to pay their rent and security fees. So it makes sense they’ve built their homes in a ring formation with communal firepits in the centre. To survive, they have to share.