Poisoned Lips

27: A deal with the devil

"Don't come closer or I swear—"

"No need to be hostile, darling." He removed his cloak, revealing his face. There was a cut mark right above his cheekbones. While he was smirking, his eyes showed no amusement.

"How may I be of service? That crone wrote to me saying that you needed my language skills. Whatever for?"

HE was the translator? A Maureen was meant to be a translator, not Felix! If only she could just dig a hole and fall right into it. Barely a week ago, he even tried to have his Royal Guards arrest her after their truce.

"Fuck off." She spat.

Now, he seemed intrigued. "Yeah?"

Freyja felt liquid slide down her neck. Was she sweating? Was that blood? Her heart was pounding in her ears. She was at his mercy. This was the same man that burned down villages and slaughtered able men. She gulped.

"I heard about what you did to Lydia."

"You murdered Lydia." She bit back.

"I'm talking about the other Lydia. The uglier one. Even I wouldn't have thought of such a fitting punishment. Bravo, Love." He blew a raspberry. "I was going to kill her in a few months. But what you did to her is sufficient enough."

"I haven't the slightest idea of what you mean." Freyja hissed.

"Of course not. Now do tell me—"

"You mother fucking prick. You know what? Go drown yourself in acid. The world will be a happier place."

Freyja's heart stopped to beat as she realized what she'd just blurted out. Oh skies, please forgive me all my sins as my soul transcends into the better—

Felix leaned back, an odd smile playing on his lips. "I am a mother fucker. Those are not the only type of females that I—"

A strangled sound came out of Freyja. Oh, skies. Oh, skies.

Felix bit his lips, not bothering to hide his smile. He leaned back on the chair, placing his ankle on one knee. His black shirt was buttoned down. Freyja tore her eyes from his exposed chest and regained her composure. Act normal. I'm normal—he's normal. This is normal.

"You speak the Ancient Language?" She asked, her voice calm as she changed the subject.

Oh, skies, oh skies. He's going to murder me.

"I'm a translator, what do you think?"

A line appeared between Freyja's brows. So many questions ran through her head. Why was he a translator? How did he learn to translate? How did he send a bird to her? Why was he not sending her to jail? Why was he not killing her? Why was he acting like they were acquaintances? How did he know what she did to Lydia when nobody knew? And why the hell was he in Diggertip of all places?

"Well." Freyja cleared her throat. "I need you to translate a few texts."

"Stop being so tense. Come. Come sit."

"Hm, the almighty High Guard, fraternizing with a fugitive. A headline I'd die to read."

"I'm off duty today." He responded curtly, his long fingers tracing lines on the table.

"Do you join the Rebels while you're off-duty too?" She huffed.

"Eh, that's just the tip of the iceberg."

Freyja shook her head, sliding the broken stone inscription and the paper over to him.

He was shocked. "Don't tell me you believe in this nonsense too?" His eyes were shining, wicked, plotting. Freyja gulped.