Chapter 17: I Hate Him

The fact that Karlos had agreed to meet me again in the deepening shadows of the woods was a miracle I didn't feel I deserved. After that impulsive, reckless kiss on the cheek—a moment of pure, unadulterated madness born of adrenaline—I was certain he’d abandon Bran and me to the mercies of the fortress. I expected him to be miles away by now, fleeing the complexity I’d thrust upon him. Instead, he stayed, anchored to the outskirts of Fortundra, leaving me with a nagging sense of confusion that hummed louder than the evening cicadas.

I adjusted the strap of my cloak, praying the darkness would hide the heat still simmering in my face. He was a good friend—loyal, ruggedly handsome in that effortless way of his—but nothing more. We would never work. We couldn't. Our lives were two rivers diverted by a mountain; he wanted the quiet simplicity of the horizon, and I was currently drowning in a sea of obsidian and silk.

"So," Karlos started, his voice cutting through the rhythmic, quiet crunch of leaves as we navigated the thicket. Bran was a warm, heavy weight on my shoulder, his talons occasionally kneading my tunic, while Karlos led Max by the reins. "How is the spy life treating you, Diana? Or should I call you 'My Lady' now?"

I let out a heavy sigh of defeat, the sound catching on the humid air. "It’s been difficult, I’ll admit. Harder than I anticipated. This isn't like the scouts we used to do back home."

"Why? Is the King mistreating you? If he’s laid a hand on you—" Karlos stopped, his knuckles whitening as he gripped Max’s lead, his protective streak flaring bright enough to see in the dark.

"No," I muttered, the word feeling bitter and heavy on my tongue. "He’s been kind. Too kind, actually. It’s... unnerving."

Karlos let out a low, irritating chuckle that grated against my frayed nerves.

"What’s so funny?" I snapped, glaring at him over my shoulder as I mentally calculated the best place to hide a body in these woods if he didn't wipe that smirk off his face.

"The King is 'too kind'?" Karlos repeated, his eyes dancing with a sharp, mocking amusement. "You sound like you’re suffering under the weight of his hospitality. Oh, the tragedy of it all. Is the wine too sweet? Are the pillows too soft for a girl from the cave?"

"I am suffering," I insisted, stopping in my tracks to face him. "I’m supposed to be gathering intel, mapping the armory, finding the cracks in his reign. But Zion makes it impossible. He’s constantly there, Karlos. He doesn't lurk in the shadows like the stories say. He’s in the solar, he’s in the garden, he’s at the table. He’s trying to disarm me with that brooding smile and those quick-witted remarks that make me forget why I’m holding a dagger."

His amusement vanished as if it had been doused with ice water. He went silent, the playful light in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a hollow, dark intensity. His gaze dropped to the dirt path, his shoulders hunching slightly.

"What?" I asked, my brows knitting together at his sudden, jarring shift in mood. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Nothing," he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual rhythmic lilt. "I just think you might actually care for him. You say his name like it’s a prayer, not a curse."

I snorted, rolling my eyes so hard it physically hurt. "Please. Give me some credit, Karlos. I haven't forgotten who I am or why I’m here."

"You spend nearly every waking hour with him," he pressed, his voice tighter now, sounding strained. "You’ve traded your leathers for his silk. You’ve traded our campfire for his candlelight. Tell me, Diana, when you look at him, do you see the enemy, or do you see a man you want to know better?"

"I am earning his trust," I hissed, stepping into his space until I could smell the woodsmoke on his coat. "I’m doing what I have to do to get what we need. It’s a performance. It’s a long-game strategy."

"But do you care for him?" Karlos pressed, his hazel eyes searching mine for a truth I wasn't ready to admit to myself. He took a step closer, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. "When he looks at you with those 'quick-witted remarks,' do you feel the same way you felt when you kissed me?"

"No," I snapped, the answer coming a second too fast, a jagged reflex to the sting of the question. "I hate him."

"You do?" Karlos looked up, genuinely startled by the sudden, sharp venom in my voice.

"Deeply," I lied, my heart hammering against my ribs with such force I was certain he could hear it. "I loathe the man. I loathe the way he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved. I loathe the way he talks about art while his kingdom sits on a powder keg. Every second I spend in his presence is a calculated sacrifice for Silvermere."

I turned away from him, my eyes burning. It was a perfect lie, a masterpiece of deception. But as I stared into the dark trees, the phantom sensation of Zion’s thumb against my jawline from earlier that day felt like a brand, mocking the very words I had just spoken. I didn't hate him. That was the problem. I feared him—and I feared the way he made me feel—but hate was a luxury I no longer possessed.

"Good," Karlos whispered, though he didn't sound convinced. He reached out, his hand hovering near the small of my back before he dropped it. "Because if you fall for him, Diana, there’s no coming back. Not for you, and not for us."

"I know," I whispered back, clutching the silk of my skirts until my knuckles turned white. "I know exactly what's at stake."

We continued walking in a silence that felt heavier than the castle walls, two ghosts moving through a forest that was quickly becoming the only place I didn't have to pretend—even if I was still lying to the only person I had left.