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

the anger from that first night bubble back up all over again. At least Touraine had kept her mouth shut. Add to it the princess—Luca was even more furious with Touraine than she had been this morning. She could see it in the sharp set of the princess’s shoulders and the way she refused to look Touraine’s way.

And if Luca hated her, she was royally fucked.

Touraine recognized the young modiste when she approached the dais, but this time, she kept her head forward. In her peripheral vision, though, she saw the woman watching her.

When the modiste insulted the Sands’ education, she was ready. She ignored it.

Still, the all-too-familiar bitterness in it caught her attention, and when the woman retreated, Touraine stepped up beside Luca. “May I be excused a moment, Your Highness?”

“Go.” Luca didn’t even bother to face Touraine as she waved the next supplicant forward.

Touraine used her own anger to add authority to the strike of her boot heels upon the floor. A small thing, but it made her feel better. She’d seen Malika Abdelnour gliding toward the food that was spread almost obscenely along buffet tables. She wondered what the Qazāli woman thought about all that wealth disguised as lamb and lemons, mint and olives, poultry dripping with honeyed sauces. What of the heaping bowls of Balladairan and Qazāli grains alike, nestled beside baguettes and tart cheese?

This would have been a legendary feast for the Sands. And she suspected something similar was going through Malika’s head.

Malika wasn’t a Sand, but maybe she’d gone through some of the same things—and yet she’d risen enough to be at the princess’s ball freely. Touraine saw in Malika someone with the same ambitions and frustrations. Ambition and frustration made for a suspicious combination, one worth exploring.

The music swelled around her like a wave. She turned, hunting, but the crowd pressed in around her.

Instead of Malika Abdelnour, she made eye contact with General Cantic. The general raised her wineglass and approached.

“Lieutenant Touraine. It looks like you’re doing better for yourself already.” She appraised Touraine’s new outfit, making Touraine self-conscious all over again.

“General. Sir. Thank you.” Touraine didn’t know what to say to Cantic or how to act. She held her hands clenched awkwardly at her sides and wished desperately for a drink to hold.

“I’m glad Her Highness was able to find a use for you.” Cantic tilted her glass toward the princess on her dais. “I would also like to offer my thanks. Because of you, we’ve been on the hunt for Brigāni in the city. It’s a good start to settling the rebel situation. Surprisingly few here, but those nightmarish gold eyes are a dead tell. I’m dying for a smoke. Did you never pick up the habit? I started back when I came in as a lieutenant.” She took a deep drink of her wine.

Touraine hadn’t picked up smoking. Pruett had, though. She’d been particular about keeping her tobacco and papers dry in the little tin she carried around. Something was slightly off about Cantic this evening. Her eyes were too bright and her words too fast, too casual. Touraine started to excuse herself, and Cantic grabbed her by the arm and stepped closer.

“I let her save you for a reason. You’re in a position to do great things for Balladaire.” Cantic lowered her mouth to Touraine’s ear to be better heard over the music. “Don’t let me down. You know where to find me.” And then Cantic pulled back, smiling the smile of proud confidence that she had turned on Touraine at the hanging, before everything had gone to shit. Touraine couldn’t help it: it triggered in her the same desire to please that it always had.

At least, it did until Captain Rogan sidled up beside them with two glasses of wine in hand. He wasn’t in uniform. He’d taken the opportunity to show off his noble blood and nobler purse.

Sky a-fucking-bove. Touraine should have realized that he would be counted among the socially required invitees.

“General Cantic, sir.” Rogan saluted the general with one glass and then bowed over the second glass as he handed it to Touraine. “Lieu—ah, excuse me. Touraine.”

Despite the oozing charm, Rogan’s voice snapped into Touraine like a whip. She flinched and hated herself for it.

“Forgive me for interrupting, sir,” Rogan said to Cantic. “I wanted to take the opportunity to apologize for any misunderstandings between me and the former lieutenant.” A grin split his long face, showing bright white teeth. “Then, perhaps, she would help me show a united front by honoring me with a dance.”

“That sounds like a good idea, Captain.” Cantic nodded over her own glass. “I’m sure there’s already gossip spreading about the trial.”

He grabbed Touraine’s empty hand with his before she could snatch it away. His grip stuck like a bayonet wedged in bone.

Touraine weighed her options. Fight him off her and break half of Luca’s fine ornaments in the process. Embarrass Luca and Cantic in the same blow. Or do nothing and accept the humiliating touch. Touraine met Cantic’s eyes again and saw in them the same words: Don’t let me down. This time, they were a warning, not encouragement.

Grinding her teeth, Touraine let him lead her to the floor. They gave their wineglasses to a milling servant. Her skin crawled where he touched her wrist and under her jacket where his hand rested on her waist.

“I don’t even know how to dance,” she hissed. “Aren’t you worried I’ll make you look like even more of an idiot?”

She expected any expression but the smile he gave her. If it had met his eyes, it would have been tender. “Some sacrifices must be made.”

He spun her around the floor with effortless grace. She had no choice but to follow his lead. She cast glances around the room even as Rogan dragged and pushed her footsteps. Malika was dancing now, and Luca—she was across the room, and Touraine desperately attempted to make eye contact, but the steps carried her away again.

Touraine didn’t