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“I can’t trust every man I come across, Gideon.” Her voice was tired but firm. “If I did, I wouldn’t have lived as long as I have. Lust isn’t enough to throw all caution to the wind. Yet… I still couldn’t kill you. There’s something between us that I hope—”
“There is nothing between us but loathing and mistrust,” Gideon cut her off.
The words were meant to hurt, and from the sharp intake of breath he heard from across the cell, they had found their mark.
“Is that why you made love to me so sweetly just this morning?” she asked, her tone mocking.
He fought hard not to let the memory of her soft body rise in his mind.
“I was a fool,” he said, his voice hard as granite. “I won’t make the same mistake again. Remember this, Leila. If they hurt me, you’re to blame. If they hurt you…” He paused, preparing himself to utter the cruel words, “I won’t lift a finger to help you.”
Chapter 17
Three days had passed in agonizing slowness. Or at least, Gideon thought it had been three days. The absence of windows in their stone prison, except for a tiny one obscured by debris, made it impossible to track time with certainty. He estimated they were fed twice a day—once in the morning and once in the evening.
Gideon had counted the meals: six servings of that revolting gruel, marking three full days since their capture.
So far, none of the food appeared to be poisoned, though it wasn’t nearly enough to sustain them. Gideon could already feel his strength ebbing, his muscles growing weaker with each passing day.
He had been certain the Cardinal would arrive within hours of their imprisonment.
In his mind, he had prepared himself for the inevitable torture—the questions that would come with heated iron and sharp blades.
He was a valuable prize, after all: Gideon Grey, the powerful Duke of Wolverstone, leader of The Shadows, the infamous Erebus who had personally sent nearly a dozen of the Brotherhood’s best men to their graves.
His reputation alone should have warranted immediate attention from their captors.
But it seemed the Cardinal had other plans.
Perhaps he intended to let them die a long and painful death, living out their last days in this cold, hollow cell, forgotten prisoners left to rot in darkness until madness claimed them.
Perhaps he wanted to break Gideon’s spirit first—to make the proud Duke of Wolverstone beg for mercy before the real interrogation began.
Each possibility was more unsettling than the last, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. He was a man of action, accustomed to controlling his own fate. This helpless waiting was almost worse than any physical torture they could devise.
His stomach gurgled embarrassingly in the silence, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space. The noise made him flush with shame, his pride rebelling against such a basic human weakness.
Suddenly, there was a sharp clink of metal against stone, and something hard flew through the darkness toward his face.
Gideon’s hand shot up and caught the object just inches from his nose, his fingers closing around it instinctively. What was that? A stone?
Some kind of projectile meant to injure him?
He squinted in the dim light filtering through the tiny window, trying to make out what he’d caught. After a moment, he realized it was a piece of bread.
Leila hurled her own piece of bread at him.
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply. He was angry at her pity, angry that she hadn’t consumed the bread herself, though she was probably as hungry as he was.
“You’re bigger than me. You require more food,” she answered simply.
“I don’t need your pity,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “And I don’t need your scraps.”
The chains rattled as she shifted position, turning away from him. “Then do with it as you please.”
Gideon rolled the piece of bread in his palm. It was barely more than a mouthful, but his stomach cramped at the sight of it, reminding him just how desperately his body craved sustenance.
It was also as hard as stone. Normally, he would have scoffed at such an offering, but now his mouth watered at the very thought.
