The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

accidently brush a lock of dark gold hair curling from behind his ear. I see a shiny scar peeking from under the open, unlaced neck of his shirt. I shift the fabric. His chest is hard planes of muscle, and the ridged line of the scar starts high on his chest and disappears somewhere around his ribs. A bad injury. I snatch my hand back, feeling like I’ve done something wrong to touch him when he’s unconscious.
    Briefly, halfheartedly, I argue with myself. He is my enemy. I should kill him, before it’s too late.
    But I get up.
    I jog to the door.
     

 
    Chapter 4
     
    AFTER A SECOND’S thought, I use my knife to cut strips from my already tattered dress. Hiding the cloth and knife behind my back, I crack open the door and lean into the hall. Imelda is about to walk into her room.
    “Imelda,” I call, not needing to fake my frantic tone.
    She looks back. “Amara? What is it?”
    “I need your help.”
    She frowns. “I am expecting a gentleman any moment.”
    “Please, Imelda! Just for a second.”
    Her petite shoulders fall with her sigh, then she walks briskly back to me, her perfectly shaped brows pinched together with irritation. I withdraw into the room so she will be forced to enter before she speaks with me.
    She steps inside. “What is it?” Then her eyes fall on the Warden slumped against the wall. “Divine light, what happened?”
    When she starts toward the Warden, I grab her from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth. She is small and weak, and I easily wrestle her to the ground. I shove a wad of cloth in her mouth and gag her. I wrench her thin arms behind her back and bind them, then drag her to the foot of the bed, where I tie her up. Her legs flail, and I grunt as a kick lands in my gut. I force her feet together and tie her ankles.
    Air whistles angrily through her flared nostrils, and I have to look away from the hurt and fury in her eyes. She was kind to me, even when she didn’t know me, and I have betrayed that.
    Then I tell myself: she was only kind because she didn’t know me. If she knew I was a Drifter, she would look at me with disgust. Ibrisians hate us almost as much as Earthmakers do. I leave the room without looking back, ignoring Imelda’s muffled shout.
     
    * * *
     
    A fire crackles in Imelda’s fireplace, washing my legs with heat as I pace the rug before it. I go over what I will say to Martel, the lines I worked on this afternoon as I waited tables. I halt midstride. When Martel walks in, I must look calm, collected, confident. I am a representative of Belos, making an offer to a man who needs it. He is the desperate one, not I. This is a business deal, not a fight.
    When Martel eases the door open, I am sitting in Imelda’s plush chair by the fire, my elbows resting casually on the dark wood arms, my back pressed to the deep orange cushion.
    His eyebrows snap together, puckering the scar that runs through the left one. “Who are you? Where’s Imelda?”
    I smile invitingly. “Please come in, Count Martel.”
    He jerks a little at the address. “How do you know my name?”
    “I know a lot of things about you.”
    He edges back.
    “It would be ill-advised for you to leave this room before talking to me. King Heborian, no doubt, would be very interested to know of your presence here.”
    His nostrils flare, but he closes the door firmly behind him. “Who are you? What do you want?”
    “Have a seat.” I indicate the chair across from me. I stare pointedly into the fire, refusing to speak until I hear him drop impatiently into the chair. His boots clunk awkwardly against the chair legs. He’s uncomfortable. Good.
    “So. Twenty years is a long time to wait, isn’t it?”
    At first he says nothing, then he grinds out, “Eighteen.”
    “I’m afraid it could be eighteen more before you can take back what is rightfully yours.”
    He huffs, “I don’t think so.”
    I give him a patronizing look. “Count Martel, Heborian is a Drifter—”
    “A sorcerer.”
    I