unForgiven (The Birthright Series Book 2)

by Bridget E. Baker

  unForgiven

  Bridget E. Baker

  Copyright © 2019 by Whitney Baker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Emmy

  Because villains aren’t always bad

  and heroes aren’t always good

  and you see the good in everyone

  and you’re more full of good than anyone

  stay that way forever and ever

  my little heart.

  Contents

  unForgiven

  1. The Present

  2. The Past

  3. The Present

  4. The Past

  5. The Present

  6. The Past

  7. The Present

  8. The Past

  9. The Present

  10. The Past

  11. The Present

  12. The Past

  13. The Present

  14. The Past

  15. The Present

  16. The Past

  17. The Present

  18. Disillusioned Sample

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Bridget E. Baker

  unForgiven

  by Bridget E. Baker

  1

  The Present

  I’ve never believed in God. Mother mentioned that my father bought into all that nonsense, but I’ve always been far too practical. On top of that, the Bible is a human record, which means it isn’t very reliable. Which is why, when I slam the door to my room shut and one book falls off the edge of my bookcase, I don’t read anything into the fact that it’s the Bible. It could just as easily have been The Art of War, the Quran, or Quantum Physics.

  I stoop to pick it up so I can slide it back into the empty slot, but my hand freezes over the page. It’s open to Genesis chapter 25, which is nowhere near the middle of the book where I’d expect it to fall open.

  31. And Jacob said, Sell me this day thy birthright.

  32. And Esau said, Behold I am at the point to die; and what profit shall this birthright do to me?

  33. And Jacob said, Swear to me this day; and he sware unto him: and he sold his birthright unto Jacob.

  34. Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentils; and he did eat and drink, and rose up and went his way. Thus Esau despised his birthright.

  A chill runs up my spine. I’ve read the entire Bible as part of my human studies coursework. This isn’t a new passage to me. Jacob and Esau aren’t even the only twins in the Bible. But in their tradition, Esau had the birthright, which meant he’d inherit all his father had as the older twin.

  And he sold it to Jacob for a bowl of mush.

  I don’t pick up the book. I walk across the room to my bed instead, sinking down into the covers with a stifled cry of anguish, one hand clutching the figure eight necklace hiding under my tattered shirt.

  My mother is dead. I fought my twin and lost, and what’s worse, all of Alamecha witnessed my failure. First they saw me snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, and then they saw me hand it right back to her.

  Why did I do it?

  Why did Esau do it? He couldn’t have needed a bowl of stew that badly. There has to be more to the story. But that line at the end is strange. I don’t recall paying any attention to it before. Esau despised his birthright. What does that mean? I close my eyes and try to recall my human studies class.

  In Ancient Near East tradition, all sons received a birthright, a share of the father’s wealth, but the oldest received a double share, or something like that. בָּזָה in Hebrew means to regard lightly I believe. My tutor told me it meant that he cared more about his physical well-being in the moment than for the spiritual blessings the birthright from God would promise him.

  But now I wonder whether perhaps he hated the idea of being the head of the household. Did he realize he would agonize over every single decision, rationing the seconds of every single day like a miser, eaten alive constantly by the stress of perfection? Perhaps forgoing his birthright for that bowl of stew felt inevitable to him, if he hated it so much.

  Was relinquishing his birthright the best thing Esau ever did?

  If so, maybe humans and evians aren’t as different as I’ve always been taught. Because my hands begin to shake, and for the first time in my life, I take a breath, a deep, unconcerned breath. I don’t care whether my heart races, or my expression wobbles, or my enemies are hatching plots based on the information they gained from the wobbles and the racing.

  I’m still Chancery’s heir for a while, but ultimately she will move along, and the burden of Alamecha will shift off of me.

  My life will be my own.

  For the first time in eighteen years, I have no idea what I’ll be doing ten years from now, or even six months from now. I flop back on my bed and close my eyes. What is it Chancy’s always doing? Listening to music or watching stupid stories play out about fake people on a television screen? Reading even more insipid tales about the lives of humans? Pah.

  I can’t waste my time like that.

  A tap at my door rescues me from tipping head first into a black hole. I sit up and brush off my blood-stained pants. I really should have spent the past few minutes showering instead of lying on my formerly clean bed. At least my covers are black and unlikely to show blood stains.

  “Come in.”

  The door cracks and Roman’s head peeks around the corner. His tawny golden eyes assess the room like he’s looking for a bomb or a landmine. I suppose dealing with me may have scarred him permanently.

  I flop back on my bed with a groan. “What do you want?”

  “Just making sure you’re alive.” He grins, his big white teeth bright against the dark brown skin of his face, and the mahogany bristle of his beard.

  I flinch. “I’m alive. Now leave.”

  Roman walks inside anyway and closes the door.

  I bolt upright, my shoulders too stiff. I force them to relax. “You still have to obey my commands. I’m still Heir.”

  Roman grins. “Yes, Your Highness. Of course, Your Highness.” He crosses the room and sits down next to me. “I thought you might want to hear the news.”

  “What news?” I arch one eyebrow.

  “Your sister has left, no one was told where, and Edam has been made Prince Regent in her absence. He doesn’t appear to be handling things very smoothly.”

  She still hasn’t named him Consort, which is bizarre. What is she waiting for? Is it possible she’s holding off to try and spare my feelings? If so, she’s an even bigger idiot than I thought. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Then you can go.”

  “I think I’ll stay for a while.” He shifts on the bed so he can see my face while sitting next to me.

  “I lost.” I throw the words up like a shield. Back off, Roman. I’m not in the mood to deal with you right now.

  “I saw.”

  “I know you saw,” I practically growl at him. “What I want to know is what you’re doing in here, right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Was I unclear on that?”

  “Sometimes what you want and what you need aren’t the same,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Gandhi. Appreciate you dropping pearls of wisdom, but I don’t need or want you in my room.”

  Roman puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his chest. I consider stabbing him with the knife I k
eep on my bedside table. Or a good jab to his solar plexus would remind him that I’m still his commander, even now, even after I lost to my pathetic sister. But I don’t do either of those. Instead, it’s like the inside of my chest splinters and I collapse against him, sobbing.

  How much must he hate me, to force me to cry on his beautifully sculpted chest? Am I to have no shred of pride left intact? No matter how much I want to pull away, I can’t. Not for a long time. My tears mix with the blood stains on my face, my neck, and my shirt, and stain the collar of his polo. The image of my blood, or my twin’s, dripping down onto his shirt because of my tears pulls me out of my despair. I fist my hands in the fabric of his shirt and drag in deep breaths.

  I finally stop crying and wipe my face.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say.

  Roman’s face closes off. “I protect and serve, now and always.”

  He has always been my most devoted guard. I shouldn’t be so hard on him. “I know today was embarrassing for you,” I say. “I’m sorry for that, and for breaking down in front of you just now.”

  Roman leaps to his feet. “You were real out there, Judica, for three seconds. You let your guard down. You looked at Chancery like a person, you eased up. I thought maybe—”

  I was real? I want to shred something. “I eased up?”

  “Yes, you could have killed her, more than once, but you didn’t. You let her win out there. I thought. . .” Roman spins around and stares at the wall, hands clenched, back muscles straining.

  “You thought I had, what? Completely changed in every single way?” I stand up. “And that made you hopeful. Does everyone despise me that much?” But I want to ask whether he despises me that much. I know Edam does, but Roman has been my closest friend for a decade. If he hates me, too, I don’t know what that even means.

  “You know I don’t despise you,” Roman says. But he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t meet my eye.

  “Are you disappointed?” I ask. “That you’re head of the guard for the Heir, still?”

  Roman flips around to face me so quickly that I stumble back, bumping into the bed and nearly sitting back down. “Nothing about you ever disappoints me. How can you not know that?”

  I lift one eyebrow. “I know you support me. You always have, and I appreciate it. I don’t tell you that often enough.”

  “You’ve literally never told me that.”

  I lift my chin. “Well, I’m telling you now. Thank you for always being there for me.”

  “I don’t want to be here as your guard.” Roman makes a choking sound.

  My heart skips a beat. “You’re quitting? Why? Because I lost?” He just said he’ll always support me.

  He shakes his head, his jaw working. “You’re probably the most gifted strategist I’ve ever met. Half the time I don’t even understand what you’re saying until I’ve spent some time analyzing it. You’re three steps ahead of everyone else, and you show no mercy. How can you be so obtuse about this?”

  “About what?”

  “I’m in love with you, Judica. I’ve loved you for years and years. I’m not quitting. I’ll never quit, but it’s time you know, because I’m sick of watching you flirting with Edam, or Havel, or Xander or anyone else.”

  I knew Roman wanted to be my Consort. I knew he wanted to rule. Of course he did. They all do. I even knew he respected me, and he’s always been unfailingly loyal. But no one loves me, not really. I’m cruel, merciless, and intense. Edam fled the second he saw an opening.

  I don’t even blame him.

  No one wants to kiss a copperhead. No one dreams of snuggling up next to a tiger.

  “You have nothing to say?” Roman asks.

  I open my mouth, but no words come out.

  “I expected that, but it still hurts more than I thought it would.” He swallows and nods at me. “Well, don’t let me keep you any longer, Your Highness. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

  I walk to my bathroom like a robot after he closes the door. I toss my bloody rags into a pile and shower all the blood and gore away, watching the red water circle the drain and then disappear. I wish sometimes that my doubt, my anger, and my sorrow could be washed away so easily.

  Every time I close my eyes, Roman’s face swims in front of mine. His golden eyes sad, his heart in his face, plain to read.

  I’m lying to myself. I’ve known Roman was in love with me for a very long time. And maybe for a while I thought. . . Maybe. . . But he’s never been a real option. Not for me.

  Because I’m a better strategist. I’m a better fighter. I destroy him in linguistics. He doesn’t bring enough to the table to be my Consort, and he never will. Thinking about it makes it hard to breathe, but it doesn’t change the facts, not in the slightest.

  I wipe away another round of unwelcome tears and dress quickly. I can’t cower in my room. I’m not sure what I should be doing, but something. Anything but hiding.

  A tap at the door sends my heart hammering up to my throat. I breathe in and out once, then twice. I can’t let him know that his declaration had any impact on me at all. Once I’m in control again, I say, “Come in.”

  When Angel steps through the doorway with a tray, I’m strangely deflated. I didn’t want to see Roman. I can never be with him, and now that he said what he said, well, some space is a good idea. Even so, I’m not so deluded I can’t admit to myself that I’m disappointed.

  I wanted to see him again. I want to see him all the time.

  “I’m assuming you’re starving, Your Highness,” Angel says.

  She doesn’t typically bring food herself. “You’re a delivery girl now?”

  Angel ducks her head. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. After today, but really, after the last week and a half.”

  Things have been strange between Angel and me since her release, but I had to know whether she killed Mother. I doubt she’ll ever forgive me for my threats or how hard I pressed, but she understands. If anyone understands, it’s her. I don’t regret any of it, though. I never regret the awful things I do to protect the family. Alamecha is what really matters, and it’s more than one person.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “You need to eat. With all that regeneration your body has done, you must be famished.”

  I can’t quite stop myself from frowning. She’s basically shoving my face in how many hits Chancery landed on me, but I think she means well. And the smell coming from the tray is heavenly. Angel was chef for the most powerful person on earth for centuries for a reason. The lady can cook.

  “Tikka masala, naan, watermelon, and a brown butter raspberry tart,” I say. “All my favorite foods. What did I do to deserve this?”

  Angel sets the tray down on my desk. “You’ve been dear to me since you were born.” Her eyes soften. “And your mother.” She shakes her head. “I wanted to show you that I harbor no ill feelings toward you for suspecting me, but I would never have harmed a hair on your mother’s head. I’ve lived to serve Alamecha my entire life, and your mother was the embodiment of the family. You’re her miniature, you know.”

  I do. “Thank you.”

  “She would be very proud of your actions today, and those of Chancery. She loved you both, and you made a hard decision, but I believe it was the right one.”

  My nostrils flare, but I manage to hold my heart rate steady and show no other expression on my face. “I appreciate your support.” Now get out of my room.

  When she leaves, I don’t slam the door. I’m actually relieved to have successfully navigated the first of the gloating well wishers. She won’t be the last. Chancery really might be more diabolical than I give her credit for. She’s punished me far more effectively with this ‘spare my life’ nonsense than killing me ever would have.

  I sink into my desk chair and breathe in the aromas I love most. I remember the first time Mother served tikka masala, warm and savory, with a tangy aftertaste of yogurt. I absolutely will not cry twice in one day. I s
hovel in a large bite of food to stave off the crying jag threatening to rip through me. The flavors burst over my tongue, triggering memories of dinner with Mother I didn’t even realize I’d been blocking.

  I’m still furious that she left me.

  I inhale the food until all that’s left is the brown butter tart. The crust is a combination of chewy and crunchy that I’ve tried several times to recreate without success. It’s still warm enough that when I dump the vanilla gelato over the top, it begins to melt. The combination is so amazing that I don’t taste the difference until my last bite.

  There’s a faintly metallic aftertaste.

  I try to leap to my feet, but my body isn’t working right. My arms feel heavy, so heavy. My eyes won’t focus. “Roman,” I try to yell. The word emerges as more of a croak than a shout. I wrap thick fingers around the edge of the table and force myself upright.

  But then my traitorous knees buckle, and I collapse on the floor. My eyes won’t focus on anything, and all I can see is the tufts of my rug. I wonder if the floor in front of her is the last thing Mother saw, too. A pang of fear for Chancery surprises me, but if someone has taken out both Mother and me, she’s next.

  As the world goes black, I think of Mother’s face. Wherever we go after we die, I hope Mother’s there, waiting for me. I close my dry, achy eyes, ready to find out.

  2

  The Past

  “You smell something fruity when there’s no fruit in the food you’re eating,” Mother says.

  “It could be one of twelve poisons,” I say. “Nitriles, isopropyl alcohol, ketoacidosis, lacquer, ethanol, isopropanol, chloroform, trichloroethane, paraldehyde, chloral hydrate, methyl bromide, or nitrites.”