Page 84 of Harbinger

I set the bottle on the floor. There’s no amount of wine that can convince me that’s a good idea. “Remember the last time I pulled a knife on someone?”

Like he could forget.

“That’s exactly why you should learn how to use a blade,” he says in a measured tone, as if slowing it down will help me understand what’s at stake. “The only thing more dangerous than a sword pointed at you is having one in your hands that you don’t know how to use.”

“Well, pretty much everybody wants me dead. Odds are, someone succeeds.” Is that the wine talking? Probably. Is the wine right? Unfortunately. “So, I’m not sure training me will matter much.”

He looks at me, really looks, and for a second, I see something almost like pity cross his face.

“It matters,” he says. “More than you know. Most people freeze. You fight back. It would just help if you knew what you were doing.”

I pick at a thread on the cushion, unsure what to say.

He stands and holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

He’s not wearing gloves, and I hesitate, my eyes snagging on his bare skin, on the silvery lines that form patterns unlike any birthright mark I’ve ever seen. Curiosity wins, and I drop my hand in his to see if something will happen when I touch those lines. His fingers close around mine, and the jolt that goes through me has nothing to do with those strange markings. My skin warms under his touch, heat traveling across my skin. I want to pretend it’s also due to the wine, but I’m too drunk to lie—even to myself.

Bishop pulls me upright, releasing me as soon as I’m on my feet, and shoves both hands in his pockets. I reach down to snag the bottle of wine, taking another long pull before following him out.

The house is quiet, apart from the faint ticking of a clock and the occasional creak of a floorboard. I should ask where we’re going, but my brain is too muddled from the combination of wine and his touch to care. He strides past the library and takes the stairs two at a time, forcing me to keep up with him. But I stop in my tracks when he continues straight toward the western wing.

He traces a pattern on the lock, then pushes the door open and gestures me inside.

I hold my breath as I step through, half expecting a torture chamber, but it’s only a sitting room. Large but not particularly grand, with a bank of east-facing glass doors and cozy, overstuffed furniture littered with mismatched pillows. The sea pounds the stone outside, making the floor shudder like it’s breathing. The hearth is dark and cold, but Bishop twists a knob on the wall, and a pair of sconces blaze to life above it, illuminating a large, darker patch of paint over the mantel. Turning, I discover a dozen more dark spots, as if every portrait and painting that once hung in this part of the house has been taken down.

But there are unmistakable signs of life in the forbidden wing: scattered books on a table near the sofa, a pair of boots left next to a tufted stool, holes worn into the threadbare rug. The low ceiling with its thick, exposed beams is angled to the steep pitch of the roof, but the sitting room doesn’t feel claustrophobic. It feels like shelter—like coming home.

“What’s down there?” I point to the corridor that extends to one side. It’s lined with more closed doors.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try them yourself?” he asks, scooping a few papers off a nearby table and dumping them in a stack on another. “Maybe you’ll get in this time.”

My mouth falls open. “How did you …”

“The lock is coded to tell me if someone tries to enter.”

Of course it is. Because this place is secure enough to be a prison. “You could have mentioned that.” Then it hits me. “You were testing me.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs.

“And I failed,” I say flatly.

“No surprise.” But he nods to the other rooms. “This was my family’s wing. I never bothered to move out.”

I don’t know what I expected to find. I trail my index finger over the cover of a book, outlining its title. I slowly trace the languid dips and swirls of an S and then a C as my mind races with the fact that we’re alone in the forbidden part of his house.

Being alone with him here feels different. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly too aware of him. Aware of the broad span of his shoulders in the low light. Of the way he seems to fill the space—fill my thoughts.

“I’m a little disappointed,” I admit, trying to ignore that dangerous realization. “Tell me there’s a dungeon hiding down the hall.”

“My study, bedroom. The rest were …” Bishop picks up the book and adds it to an already teetering pile.

I lift a brow. Somebody hates people touching his belongings.

“I stopped making Lenora clean in here. She has enough to do,” he explains, already moving on. “I want to show you something.”

He crosses to the glass doors and pushes them open to reveal a large stone terrace. Ocean air snaps at my clothes as I follow him out. Thanks to my blood alcohol content, I barely notice. The balcony juts out over a cliff, its railing slick with moss and sea spray. Bishop grips it, staring at the wild, black water.

“This is where I come when I want to be alone,” he says, voice almost lost to the roar of the water below.