He traced their route. It was a long, looping path that started south but bent sharply back north. His finger paused. About a day and a half in, the two routes almost kissed, a brief intersection right in the middle of the woods marked as the duskfangs’ last known territory. He hadn’t arranged that. But it was useful.
He stepped back from the crush of bodies and turned. Raven already waited at the edge of the crowd, her back pressed against the cold stone of the archway. Her eyes weren’t on the proctor, or the map, or the other students. They swept across the rooftops and the courtyard’s exits, a slow, methodical scan that missed nothing. The instant she felt his gaze, the habit vanished. Her eyes snapped to his, flat and unreadable.
"You have a very specific way of listening to a safety briefing."
Her lips barely moved. "Some habits don’t turn off just because nobody is shooting at me yet."
His eyes dropped, following the line of her body where she leaned against the stone. The academy uniform was a joke on her. It tried to make her look like a student, but on her, it just looked like a disguise. Her hip was cocked to one side, pulling the pleated skirt tight across a backside that was all firm, athletic curve. The fabric strained, promising a shape that was more power than softness.
"At least the view makes the wait bearable," he said, his voice a low murmur meant just for her. As he said this he looked her up and down.
She didn’t so much as twitch. No blush, no glare, not even a flicker of annoyance. He might as well have been commenting on the weather. She pushed off the wall, her movements economical and sharp.
"Don’t slow me down out there. That’s the only thing I need from you."
"I’m wounded you’d assume the worst of me this early."
"I assume nothing." Her gaze was a physical weight. "I simply have ears."
She turned and walked toward the gate without another word, not even checking to see if he followed.
An hour into the woods, Cane had not shut up. The relentless stream of his voice was a counterpoint to the quiet crunch of their boots on fallen leaves.
"This whole pairing feels wasted, you know? They stick me with a woman who won’t even crack a smile at a single decent line. It’s a tragedy."
Raven said nothing, her pace steady.
"Do you practice looking unimpressed in a mirror, or is it just a natural talent? Because if it’s the latter, you’re a prodigy."
Still nothing. Her shoulders didn’t even tense. He let his gaze drift down her back, settling once again on the way her skirt moved as she walked. That ass was a masterpiece, at least she had that much going for him.
"Unprompted observation," he announced to the back of her head. "But whoever tailors these academy skirts deserves a raise. And a medal. Mostly based on the evidence currently walking ten feet in front of me."
For every five sentences he uttered, she gave him one clipped word in return. "Right." "Here." "Stop." It was like talking to a very well-armed wall. As the silence stretched, his own borrowed memories began to surface, unbidden. Raven Harbringer.
The name was a footnote in the novel. It was tied to another name: the Ashen Talons. An anti-noble militant group that had started as a peasant resistance and soured into something uglier. B
ombings. Assassinations.
Justice twisted into terrorism, basically. The usual story.
One specific detail floated up from the dregs of his memory. A marketplace. and bomb meant for a noble’s convoy that went off at the wrong time.
It missed the convoy completely and killed a dozen shopkeepers and children instead. The novel mentioned that was the incident that broke her.
She’d cut ties with the Talons, vanished, and resurfaced at Hale Academy with a record so clean it had to be forged. Because her record was forged.
Because he was, at his core, an asshole who couldn’t leave a sleeping dog lie, he decided to kick it.
"So," he said, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "How’s the whole trading-bombs-for-homework thing working out for you? As an ex-terrorist, I’m sure doing homework with a bunch of noble spoiled brats must be like hell, huh?"
He watched the line of her shoulders. Nothing.
"Does the marketplace still come up in your nightmares," he pushed, "or have you moved on to nicer scenery? I imagine a bunch of innocent children died when you blew them up in the name of ’justice.’"
She stopped walking.
For a long second, she didn’t move at all.
Then, she turned around, her movements slow and deliberate. Her face was a blank slate, but her eyes were black holes. Fury and confusion filled her eyes.
"How do you know that?" Her voice was low, a controlled whisper that was more menacing than any shout.
He gave her a lazy, unconcerned smile. "A man in my position hears things."
She took a step closer, closing the distance between them until she was right in his space. He could smell the faint scent of pine and cold iron from her gear.
"Who told you? How long have you known? And who else have you told?"
"Nobody else knows," he said, dropping the smile. "And nobody ever will. Unless you give me a reason to change my mind."
Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his uniform collar, twisting the fabric tight. Her knuckles were white.
"A real answer. Not games."
Instead of pulling back, he leaned into her grip, a small, deliberate motion. His gaze dropped to her mouth for a half-second before returning to her eyes.
"You know, being manhandled like this is doing interesting things to my opinion of you," he said, his voice a low purr. "If you wanted my attention this badly, you could have just asked."