The Unbroken C. Clark (best books to read for self development .txt) 📖

Touraine blinked hard and turned toward the fire. “If I don’t do this, I’m dead, Pru.”

“He hurts, Tour. And if you’d died, I… I’d be a pain in the ass, too.” They stood so close that Touraine felt the shake of Pruett’s pained chuckle. After a moment, she added, “He’s right. It’ll cost you.”

Pruett’s body heat, the heat of the fires: a fortification against the cold night. The invisible belt around Touraine’s chest tightened again.

“You and her really aren’t fucking?” Pruett asked.

“No. If she wanted to fuck me, she could have pulled me out for a night and sent me back.” Maybe that was naive. Maybe Touraine had misinterpreted the princess’s looks, her hospitality.

“What could I do if she did want me?” New fear made Touraine’s voice bitter. She tasted bile, remembering that night in Balladaire, surrounded by Rogan and his men.

“Not want her back. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“I don’t want her at all.”

“You want what she can give you, and that’s real fucking close, Tour.”

“To help you? To get you paid and treated fairly? Yeah. I want that.”

Pruett pinched the bridge of her nose, a muscle flexing in her jaw. “That’s not all. It never has been. You want to be one of them. You’re not. You never will be.” Pruett slipped her warm, calloused palm into Touraine’s and squeezed. “Anylight. She’s waiting.”

PART 2TURNCOATS

CHAPTER 11THE MODISTE

The morning after the funeral, Touraine presented herself promptly after breakfast, back rigid, arms stiff at her sides. Luca had thought to give her some time to adjust, but the soldier insisted, so Luca rescheduled their appointment with the modiste for that afternoon so that Touraine could get clothing befitting her new station.

In the carriage, her new assistant sat stiffly beside Guérin, her fists balled tight on her knees across from Luca. The carriage cabin felt smaller than usual. Luca shifted her small satchel on her lap; it held the mysterious book about Shālan history that had come out of nowhere.

Touraine’s face was neutral, but Luca caught the lines of tension around her mouth, in the careful, awkward way she avoided looking at Luca or brushing against Guérin at all. Luca had the impression that being so still took an effort.

“Not one for carriages?” Luca asked, trying to ease her with a smile. She’d seen Gil do it with young soldiers who fumbled around him, nervous and awestruck by the dead king’s champion.

“I’m fine, Your Highness.” The soldier bowed from her seat.

And resumed staring at the cushion opposite her.

The cart jostled in the silence that followed, the rattle of wheels transitioning from dirt to fitted pavers. Luca steadied herself on the side door.

“You can look out, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine, Your Highness.” Wooden. Obedient. Nothing like the woman who shot down Beau-Sang over dinner or had the audacity to call in the future queen’s debt. Unfortunately, Luca needed that fierce, independent soldier. How would her father bring out the lieutenant’s fiery assertiveness? How would Gil? How would her uncle?

She didn’t have her father’s example. She had barely witnessed Gil’s, and she didn’t trust her uncle’s. She had only her books and the years of study she’d spent hunting for the best way to wear her parents’ crown.

She read Yverte most often, wearing the spine of The Rule of Rule ragged. For a leader to be respected, they must show power. Never show doubt, for a ruler does not doubt. A ruler decides. A ruler acts.

She scooted over on her bench until she was directly in front of Touraine. She snapped her fingers.

“Lieutenant. I didn’t save you from the gallows just so you could stare. If I were Cantic, how would you behave right now?”

She’d seen the way the woman looked at Cantic—like she wanted to fuck the general, or be her. Or both. Cantic was respected. Cantic was decisive. Luca wanted to inspire that kind of devotion. She wished she could ask Cantic how she’d drawn Touraine in.

The soldier blinked at her slowly, as if trying to bring Luca into focus. “Thank you,” she said. She looked down at her fists and flattened them to cup her knees. “Thank you for Émeline and Thierry’s pyre, too.”

Heaviness settled around Luca’s shoulders and seeped through her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to say any of the standard patriotic platitudes her uncle might have, all of that “meaningful service to Balladaire” drivel. Especially because she wasn’t sure she’d have done it if she hadn’t already been thinking about what the soldier—the ex-soldier—Touraine—could help her accomplish. About what the woman knew, or could learn, about the magic. And how glad Luca had been to upend that self-important young captain at the court-martial.

“I owed you a life,” Luca said simply.

It was as good a moment as any for her to introduce Touraine to her new job.

“I saved you so that I could send you back to the rebels.”

As usual, Guérin was perfectly unflappable, keeping an eye on Touraine and an ear to the streets, even though Lanquette was outside with the driver.

Touraine looked up, eyes wide, jaw tight. Clever enough to be patient, but it appeared the ex-soldier couldn’t control her expressions, and that wouldn’t do in front of the rebels or the Balladairans. Another strike against her diplomatic skills.

“You’re an assistant to the governor-general of the Shālan colonies. That’s me now. You’ll be my envoy and represent the empire’s interests while I work toward peace.”

“An ambassador?” Touraine’s shoulders relaxed, but her face remained tense. “And my mission? Your Highness.”

“More like a negotiator. The rebels aren’t a sovereign nation unto themselves. They won’t get an ambassador. But the mission is peace. For the most part. To be my spy, for the other part. If the first part fails.”

Touraine’s brow furrowed. “They know me, though. I’ll be a shit—sorry, a terrible spy, Your Highness.” Then her face closed off as she realized she’d spoken out of turn, and expected chastisement.

“It’s all right.” Luca smiled