“Of course he does, the wretched hollowspawn. Probably thinks he’s so much smarter than the Patrol investigators.” Margo gave a slight nod, her way of granting permission before Emmaline took the glass. “How?”
“We caught him splashing remnants of my essence all over the statue.” Emmaline took a slow sip, savoring the rich, dark wine as its warmth unfurled in her chest. “Probably pulled it from… from the manor’s bed.”
“And Lara can remove it?”
She took another sip, letting the flavor linger before answering. “That’s the idea.”
Margo stretched her arms over the chair, watching her with the practiced ease of someone who measured every question before asking it.
“And we’re not worried someone might see a Corgi?” she asked. “Lara is many things, but discreet is not one of them.”
“The place will be empty.” Emmaline extended her legs out over the edge of the bed. “It’s Wednesday. He’ll be at the Madame’s.”
“Hmmm.” Margo smoothed out a crinkle in her sleeve. “Oh. Well, I feel sorry for whichever poor woman is stuck entertaining him tonight.” She was the perfect picture of refined sympathy, as ifdiscussing an unfortunate wardrobe mishap. “But at least Lara will be in the clear.”
“Yeah.” Emmaline watched the wine swirl against the crystal, hesitating. She wanted to ask Margo if she’d been able to follow through with the other part of the plan. And if she was still willing to do it.
But instead, she sidestepped the real question. “Is the dress ready?”
It was one thing to ask Margo to procure ingredients and alter a gown. It was another to ask her to risk everything.
The corners of Margo’s mouth twitched, her expression unreadable. “Yes. Caelith agreed to host me for dinner tomorrow evening. And Ursula dropped off the dreambane a couple of hours ago. It should knock him out quite quickly. I just need to slip it into his drink.”
Emmaline stilled. Of course, the woman knew what she had been thinking. They’d been friends for too long.
“You’re sure?” She knew Margo wouldn’t back out. But now, with the pieces sliding into place, she needed to give her the opportunity to say no. “It’s not too late to stop. We could leave it at framing him for murder.”
Margo held her gaze. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” The word slipped out—raw, certain.
Margo waited, expectant.
“I want to punish him.” Even that felt too small for what burned inside her. “I want him to feel every sliver of pain I felt when the bond broke.” Her grip on the glass tightened, threatening to break the delicate crystal. “Every ounce of helplessness I felt when he…” Disgust rose in her throat. “When he thrust into me, even as my body betrayed me.” The rage flared sharp and hot, her teeth grinding against it. “I want him to feel the shame and fear of having something precious taken from him against his will.”
She forced her hand steady, breath slowing as the heat hardened into something colder. Lifting the glass, Emmaline took a long sip, then carefully set it down. “In this case, it will be his life.”
With each word Emmaline spoke, Margo leaned closer, her usual grace giving way to something wild, something feral that flashed just beneath her skin. For a moment, Emmaline swore the brown of her eyes darkened, sinking into pure pitch—something ancient peeking out from beneath the polish of her social grace. But it was gone before she could be sure.
“Good.” The word rippled like a pebble dropped into still water. It wasn’t quite Margo’s voice, not entirely. There was something underneath, something older. It pulled at the edges of Emmaline’s memory but slipped free before she could catch it.
She shook her head, finishing the last swallow of wine and setting the glass down with a satisfied click. It didn’t matter.
“Alright.” The wicked edge was back in her voice. “Show me my dress. The one I’ll wear to dance through the wreckage of House Greymane with Caelith’s blood still wet beneath my nails.”
***
Emmaline stood at the worn wooden counter, knife in hand, slicing through a cluster of bloodroot. The thick red-veined tubers stained her fingertips as their peppery scent filled the air. Cooking wasn’t her strong suit, but chopping things into submission? That she could manage.
Just as her focus wavered, a knock sounded at the door—her hand jerked, and the blade veered off the root, slicing her thumb.
“Fuck!” She shoved her thumb into her mouth, sucking on the wound, her voice muffled around her finger as she yelled toward the door. “I’m fine! I swear! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
It was probably Cassidy. Or Ursula. Or both, showing up early to hover before the plan kicked off tomorrow.
She grabbed the knife again, more annoyed than injured, and started chopping once more—
Another knock.
