Page 40 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“If you’re not early, you’re late,” Roremar responded, dragging a ringed hand through his waves. His forearm flexed, one of the tattoos peeking beneath the rolled sleeve ticking. Serchus’s sigil? Emmeline thought. “That’s what my father always said.”

Said.

That word shocked Emmeline from her investigation of his ink. Her hands stilled where they smoothed her cloak over the back of her chair.

But before she could comment, Roremar went on, as if that slip hadn’t revealed a vital piece of himself to her.

“I’ve brought my notes, believe it or not.” She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but Roremar pulled out the file Falliare had given them along with some she hadn’t seen but assumed were from Lyra Isle Guard, dropping them on the wooden table with a loud smack.

“Me, too,” Emmeline said, pulling out the chair opposite his and removing her own notes from her pack.

“Where do you want to⁠—”

But Roremar’s question stalled when the door was wrenched open and two men barreled in. Emmeline was already pulling the knife from the lining of her boot when one spoke.

“Sorry we’re late!” the shorter of the two blurted, dark waves bouncing wildly around his flushed cheeks. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in the corridors here.”

The other guffawed, locks of honey-blond hair shaking around his face with the exhale, the front pulled back in a knot but for a few strands. “A part of me thinks that was the plan, Nico.” He locked his arms across his broad chest, the short sleeves of his casual tunic showing off a pattern of ink entirely covering one, an intricate design on the other forearm. Surveying the room, his gaze widened on the blade in Emmeline’s hand. “What are you planning to do with that, darling?”

“Depends on who you are and why you’re here,” she clipped. “I don’t like being surprised.”

His eyes danced. “Oh, you are fun.”

Roremar pushed up from his seat, and out of the corner of her eye, Emmeline swore she saw an impressed smirk flash across his lips as he took in her dagger. But he turned his attention on the men. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to help,” the blond, tattooed warrior answered simply.

“This is private business,” Emmeline said firmly. “You must go.”

“What she said,” Roremar echoed, falling back into his chair.

The two men exchanged a glance, both pinning Roremar with insistent stares, and Emmeline was struck with the instinct that she was lacking information.

Interrupting their silent duel, she asked, “Who are you?”

“His brother,” and “His best friend,” the two answered in unison.

A blaze of frustration roared through her. Before she could think, she flicked her wrist. And her dagger landed in the seat of Roremar’s chair, right between his spread legs. All three men sucked in a breath, the blond one biting back a smile.

Emmeline didn’t look at the new guests. She surged toward Roremar, one hand gripping the arm of his chair, the other threatening on the hilt of her dagger. “You told your friend and your brother about this, Reckless? We’re working with sensitive information here.”

Roremar, clearly not impressed with her attitude, leaned forward so his nose nearly brushed hers. “Yes, but I haven’t told them anything more than is necessary!”

“Why would you do that? Can’t handle this on your own?” she accused.

“Believe it or not, Huntress, some of us don’t have the privilege of being so isolated.” His words landed like a fist to her chest, shattering her ribs. How did he know that? Was it simply from all the research he’d done on her?

But she didn’t—wouldn’t—ask. His fingers curled around hers on the weapon, and she hated how that motion wrested control from her. “Some of us have people relying on us, and when we’re being called away at all hours of the day, we have to notify them.”

The pieces of her ribs pierced her lungs, and judging the way Roremar’s brow creased, she didn’t hide it as well as she’d hoped.

He wrenched her dagger from his seat, keeping her hand steadily pressed to the hilt as he sheathed it back in her boot. She ignored the way his fingers brushed her bare calf beneath her skirt, heat scorching through her. Her breath was still stuttering from the harsh impact of his words as he shoved his seat back.

“Just because I have to tell them my whereabouts does not mean I invited them.” Roremar rounded on his brother and friend. “Now what in all the Fates’ fucks are you two doing here?”

They were both silent, eyes still flicking between Emmeline and Roremar. Then, the shorter—his brother—leaned toward the friend and muttered, “Spirits, we were right about them having a lot in common.”

The blond warrior whispered back, “They’re going to eat each other alive.”