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I swallow. My throat burns. ‘I— Valentin—’
‘No.’ His voice is an arctic wall. ‘I can already smell your lies. Do not speak unless it’s to tell me the truth.’
My tongue swells but the truth remains locked in my mouth.
Rowan’s voice is calm. Final. ‘There is your proof.’
I try to move towards him. To bargain. To snark my way out of panic. Then I glare at the teleporter. ‘How the fuck did you remember?’ Teleporters are primed to mentally erase their tasks for this very reason.
‘He had a recording device,’ Malachi says smoothly, anticipating the question with obvious pleasure. ‘Apparently our young courier supplements his income by blackmailing clients.’
Crap.
I look back at Valentin, but Malachi is suddenly in front of me, blocking my path, eyes glittering with pure savagery. ‘May I remove her, sire?’
Valentin’s gaze burns into me. For one second, I think he’ll refuse. Then he says, ‘Yes. Take her.’
My blood turns to ice. ‘Valentin?’
The Twelve move. Hands close on my arms, shoulders, wrists. I fight once on instinct and realise instantly how futile it is. I have no weapons, zero leverage, no way through them, and I’m viciously aware that I’m a hair’s breadth from having my head ripped off.
Valentin doesn’t answer me, either mind-speech or otherwise. And that… hurts more than the hands on me.
I throw myself at the blood bond anyway. Valentin?
I feel nothing but a spiked wall where his voice had been.
At the door Malachi leans close enough that only I can hear him. ‘You should have stayed in your lane, hunter. Now you will die in mine.’
Panic sparks into fury. ‘You’re enjoying this way too much.’
His smile is blatant. ‘You have no idea.’
We’re barely through the door when movement blurs in front of us and Valentin fills my vision.
The jaw I stroked last night is cut from stone. His eyes are black holes, all silver gone. When he speaks, his voice is low enough to make my ribs ache. Out loud for everyone to hear. ‘Tell me why.’
My throat tightens as Bride’s Mercy sinks claws into my tongue. I cannot speak Lyra’s name or divulge that I sent the sample because the witch who made Eira Cross may be the only person who can tell me whether I’m killing him by being what I am.
And call it stupid pride but I won’t beg with Rowan and the Twelve watching.
So I lift my chin and meet Valentin’s gaze. ‘No.’ The word leaves my mouth before my survival instinct can tackle it to the ground.
His jaw flexes once. Then, calmly, as if issuing an administrative decision, he says, ‘Take her to the dungeon.’
My stomach drops as the Twelve haul me away. I twist, eyes burning, and catch one last glimpse of him standing in the suite like a statue carved from power and sickness.
Rowan watches him, unreadable.
The last thing I hear before the iron door slams is Valentin’s voice, not in my mind, but out loud, meant for everyone, meant to be law.
‘Bring me the truth,’ he says, tone so flat it terrifies me more than shouting ever could, ‘or leave her there until her bones turn to ash.’
13
VALENTIN
She. Poisoned. Me.
