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CHAPTER ELEVEN; saving voice
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KAZ HAD NEVER LIKED MISERY, he did not like those who wallowed in it, those who whined about their sad little lives without ever lifting a finger to shove misery aside and let some other emotions take the reigns, be it spite or greed, or revenge. Misery was profitable, though, those who were in great distresses and discomfort liked to drown their sorrows in his alcohol and give up their savings at his parlors. Misery had never been more than a source of profit for Kaz; something he could use to extort and manipulate. It had never been more than that.
Until her. His Misery.
When he felt Ace's skin beneath his lips, her heartbeat under his fingers, saw the molten look of her silver eyes just as they fluttered close when he dipped his head, not sure what he'd been doing or what he intended, but fighting his way through ghosts and deadly waters to get to her... At that moment misery became something else.
Something addicting. Something that had him reveling as he trembled and shut his eyes tightly to slaughter the ghosts, just so he could... He didn't know what he had intended, what he did know was that her name couldn't be truer. Bela Miseria would be his ruin. He hated her for it—he hated that he didn't hate her enough to put a bullet through her eyes and get rid of his liability.
So, he let Dirtyhands take the reins, even though he knew Ace wouldn't be disconcerted by him, but knowing the Bastard of the Barrel was the one who could push aside his misery—his Beautiful Misery—and get the job done.
He didn't speak a word to her as they joined the group again. Nina came back, having discovered that most of the prison wagons passed by the roadhouse known as the Warden's Waystation on the route to the Ice Court. Kaz and the others had to trek almost two miles out of Upper Djerholm to locate the tavern. It was too crowded with farmers and local laborers to be useful, so Kaz led them further up the road, and by the time they found a spot with enough cover and a stand of trees large enough to suit their purpose, Kaz still hadn't spoken a word to Ace.
Not that she made an effort to speak to him either. She laughed with Nina, Inej, and Jesper, teased Helvar for whatever she could find annoyed him the most, and skillfully avoided Wylan—it seemed the Lavern situation still hung over her head. But she didn't speak to him.
Good, he thought to himself. The prospect of going back to Ketterdam and having her go back to being the elusive unknown thief of Ketterdam and being rid of his distraction was tempting enough to add even more motivation for the heist.
That night they camped in a dry gully bordered by a tangle of shrubs. Nina used her tailoring abilities to cover the groups' tattoos leaving a blotchy patch of ink over their skin. The only person who refused was Ace—she told them her tattoos meant nothing to the world. Tattoos—plural. And begrudgingly and involuntarily, Kaz couldn't help but wonder just how many she had, where they lay on her golden skin that he hadn't seen before, and if they meant anything to her.
