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

Luca shook her head. She didn’t need that kind of honesty right now. She stuck her hands in her pockets to remove temptation.

“What about the dance?” Touraine smiled slyly when Luca hesitated. “The drink might help.” Her lingering anger seemed dulled.

Luca was never one for drinking much more than mulled wine. Spirits resulted in a freedom she was unwilling to give herself. Inhibitions were there for a reason.

Then, still holding the cup, Touraine giggled. This broad-shouldered, muscle-bound ex-soldier, who spent most of her time either glowering or bowing at people, had smirked at her future queen, and now she was actually giggling.

Sky above, Luca wanted to do right by that laugh. She wanted Touraine to giggle at her, to smirk and smile and tease her. She hated to want it. She could have fought it, pushed back, snapped Touraine away. Swatted down the cup. That wouldn’t get her anything she wanted.

Luca took the cup.

Only the Shālans’ god knew what was in that fucking cup, but it burned Luca’s nose as she inhaled, then coughed.

Touraine laughed again, mouth wide and open. None of the conscripts looked like that in the compound. Did the freedom come from the liquor or from being with other Qazāli?

Luca closed her eyes and bowed her head over her drink. For a second, she forgot about the magic and the rebellion.

She had been an idiot all this time. Touraine blamed her for everything—not just Guérin, but the Sands who had died protecting Balladairan interests, too. Luca’s interests. Luca was as culpable as Cantic, as Rogan. Touraine couldn’t possibly forgive her, and so Luca could never have more of Touraine than the occasional late-night tea or afternoon échecs game. This drunken giggle, this smile, might be the closest Luca ever got.

She opened her eyes again. Gil’s eyes bulged as he shook his head minutely, which she knew translated to Please don’t do this, not even over my steaming corpse, but she ignored him and tossed the drink down her throat.

Shālan exclamations erupted around her, and laughter as the stinging bitterness made her cheeks suck in. She sputtered like a drowned woman until only a sour aftertaste and a warm sweetness in her belly remained.

Touraine held on to her by the shoulder, a gentle vise. Luca leaned into the safety of the touch.

She smiled up at Touraine. “Let’s dance, then.”

Touraine took her hand and led her out to the dancing.

Touraine and Aranen both threw an arm under Luca’s shoulders, and other dancers linked around them until they became a circle. The drums beat, tak-tak-tak, but in a rhythm that allowed her to shuffle sideways with the others. Her awkward hops fell in time with each beat. She didn’t feel as stilted as she did on a ballroom floor. The drummers slowed for her, and a whole melody sprang up around this new beat. And if she started to stumble, Touraine and Aranen took her weight on their shoulders and carried her through the steps. She focused on keeping the weight on her quickly tiring good leg. Finally, the drummers reached their crescendo, and even Luca gave a short yip at the end.

Still, she was grateful when the drummers stopped to sate their hunger and slake their thirst. Her hip caught with the tightening of muscle. Touraine led her back to their fire, where Gil and Djasha sat with Elder Ebrahm. They had been deep in conversation but stopped as she approached. The elder smiled in her direction, his eyes unfocused. He was almost blind.

She let Touraine guide her back onto a stool, and she slumped there, grinning like a fool.

Is it the drink?

Perhaps, but not only. She felt safe. Even though by anyone else’s reckoning, she was in an enemy camp.

No sooner did she think that did she feel the slight dimming in her head. A sharp crack and someone’s stifled cry. She jumped, and Touraine was in front of her, hand on her knife.

It was only some sparring dancers. One of them had landed a hit. Jaghotai, standing nearby, noticed their defensive reactions and laughed. It was an ugly, barking sound.

“So scared to be among your conquered? Your Highness.” Jaghotai tilted her head and approached.

Touraine kept herself between them, and the other guards flanked her. Gil edged closer to Luca, the better to whisk her away.

“And you defend her.” Jaghotai sneered as she addressed her daughter for the first time all night. “You really are a faithful hound, all dressed up in her collar. Where is your spine?”

Touraine’s palm cracked against her cheek.

The sound rang across the fires, and people hushed to watch. They smelled blood on the air, sizzling in the flames. The peace Luca had thought was so certain developed a brittle texture.

Aranen stepped forward. “Touraine. Jaghotai. This is unnecessary.”

“Come out.” Jaghotai ignored Aranen and jabbed her thumb to the empty space behind her. “Just a friendly go.”

“Be careful,” Luca murmured. “I’d hate to have to find a new assistant.”

Touraine rolled her neck and shoulders. “No one else would do it.”

Luca couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not.

The two squared off in the center of the fires.

“No fancy knife?” Jaghotai circled Touraine, barehanded.

Touraine gave a faint, barely perceptible smile. Gone was the exuberant woman who had cajoled Luca into a drink.

Djasha took the role of judge without prompting, as if this were a common occurrence. Space in front of Elder Ebrahm remained clear. Luca wasn’t sure how well his eyesight would let him see, but the intended courtesy was obvious.

Djasha clapped once and the fight began.

It was like watching the dancing, only deadlier.

They were both quick, and Luca thought for certain that Touraine would have a clear advantage because of her age, but that wasn’t the case. Jaghotai was bulkier, but she was as light on her feet as Touraine. One hit from that powerful arm—a thrill of fear for Touraine jolted up Luca’s back.

Such close fighting, so intimate with the body… Luca had never learned that. Her