Her pistol was pointed at his knee, so at least his manhood was safe. For now. “Why should I?”
“I want to know where Ryon will be staying before the ceremony, and when he’s brought to the arena. Surely you know the location. It changes year to year. Which room will he be taken to?”
Cold eyes watched him like a hawk to a mouse. Any moment he felt she might pounce on him.
“Why do you want to know about Ryon Ward?”
“Stupid question, Lysse. You know I can’t tell you that.”
She was silent for a minute. He thought she might not speak.
“I really don’t see why I should tell you. If I know anything at all.”
“Don’t be a liar now. You know more about this kingdom and its people than the actuary. It’s a simple request, Lysse. I just want to know where he’ll be. Let’s say I wish to give him a warm handshake before the competition, eh?” His attempt at cracking a smile felt forced, and judging by her expression of disbelief—it hadn’t worked either.
“And do I need to remind you that I know you well, Patrick? You wouldn’t want to know where he was staying unless it was very important to you. It must be difficult to have to succumb to my level, isn’t it? To have to coerce a whore for information via threats.”
His molars attempted to grind into dust as he chomped away with agitation. Why couldn’t this have been easy? Women never made anything easy.
“It’s surprisingly easy to bend down to your level, Lysse. Did I mention my blade is made from silver?”
And like that, any semblance of teasing banter evaporated between them. Leaving her stiff with malice. Her eyes dipped to study the blade and verify the truth in his words. When she looked at him again, he fought not to take a step back at the murder in her eyes. She wanted to kill him, he could see it so clearly. Cold, dead eyes, ready to strike. Sweat broke out over his forehead, the squeezing grip on the leather sword handle growing moist.
“Some mistakes can never be fixed.” Eerie words. Unsettling words.
“What does that mean?” he snapped. “Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t become you.”
One thin eyebrow quirked up. “You don’t want to see what becomes of me, Patrick.”
His heart skipped a beat—a bolt of fear. He staggered inwardly, his arm wavering around her neck, unable to stay locked straight. No, he didn’t want to see that. He hoped to the Lord he never had to see it.
“Just tell me where he’ll be. I plan to give him flowers and offer to shake hands with the man who’s fighting for the woman I want. It’s nothing more than some masculine posturing, Lysse. I also plan to propose to Penelope Farris. I want her for myself.”
She looked skeptical. “You think one lousy proposal from you will sweep her off her delicate little feet? Do you really think you stand a chance against the general? He’s built like a mountain, while you…” she looked up and down, “resemble a poor farm boy.”
His lingering fear fed his confidence. He was so close to getting the answers he needed. She was close to caving, he could see it as the resistance left her posture.
“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you,” Lysse said after a minute. “He’s supposed to arrive before noon. He’ll be taken to the men’s waiting room on the west side of the building. A secluded compartment separate from the main arena.”
Her words rang with truth, though he wished he could press further.
“Lysse—” he didn’t know what he was going to say, but she stopped him before he could anyway.
“Quiet!” she ordered and spun around. He flicked his blade away, narrowly missing nicking her neck. “I hear people in the hall. I hope they’re not looking for me.”
The excitement in her voice made him think otherwise.
“This is all your fault.”
She shoved the pistol back into her satchel.
What was this? What was she up to now?
Not that he could complain at her being in a weakened position. While she listened at the door he poured another drink, filling the entire glass this time. He downed it in two swallows. Damn, but he needed that. Maybe even a whole bottle after this encounter.
Voices were rising outside, a commotion in the hallway.
Lysse peered outside the door, only opening it a smidgen. “There’s a crowd forming in the hall,” she whispered back to him. “It looks like they’re about to break down one of the doors.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
She didn’t look concerned, more like she wanted in on the gossip. Always a secret seeker, Lysse didn’t wait to hear about gossip, she preferred to learn of it firsthand, then use that information as leverage. Just as he’d done with her secret today.