Page 28

The first time he’d sat with me like this, I’d been too wrung-out to speak. It had irked him, being ignored. So, since then, I spared him only a few glances each visit, rationing my attention until he craved it. But this was the first time in days—at least four, judging by the meals—that he seemed delighted by the challenge.

As the fruity scent of rum trickled up to me, I peeked at the tray and frowned. Beside the regular meal sat a little wreath-shaped raisin cake, topped with thick white icing.

A victory cake. Meant to be eaten only during times of triumph.

Erik released a contented sigh, and I glanced toward him. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back against the wall.

I swallowed hard. There was a metal spoon beside the stew. How hard would I have to jab it into his throat to make him bleed?

Erik chuckled, startling me. “Imagining how you can make good on your vow?”

My blood chilled as I remembered what I’d said that first day in this cell: I promise that I’ll be the one to kill you. I promise I’ll enjoy it. And I promise that your death will be as painful as the deaths you have granted others.

Now he opened his eyes and smirked down at me. I turned my head sharply, my heart rate gaining speed.

“A knife across the throat, perhaps? A blow to the head? Or . . .” He slowly reached for my hand, angling fully toward me. “A solid strike to the chest.”

I tried to steady my breathing as his cool fingers wrapped loosely around mine. My gaze journeyed unwillingly to where he guided my hand: resting flat over his chest.

“You would have to aim your power just right,” he said softly. “You’d need to strike faster than an asp, but as fiercely as a cannon.” My fingers were trapped between his broad palm and his jacket, his pulse thrumming from both sides. “Tell me again how you’ll make it hurt.” His words rumbled under my touch. “Tell me how you’ll enjoy it.”

As my breaths roared in my ears, I realized his hand had lost its pressure. I was pressing against him on my own now, nails digging into his jacket.

I looked up to find him smiling, pale blue eyes crinkling at the edges.

Then I wrenched away, my skin humming with frustration. Erik chuckled again. This was a game to him—pulling out a thread of my violence so he could weave it to his desire.

“Don’t hold your tongue on my account,” he teased. “I won’t class it as treason.”

He reached for my face, and I tensed as he tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, his voice going quiet. “Speak boldly, and spitefully, and freely.” He brushed one knuckle down my cheek. “Speak as sharply as you always have. But speak.”

I clenched my hands, eyes fixed on my lap. He must have forgotten how those fingers had recently fisted in my hair, tugging until my eyes had watered. I had not forgotten.

Erik sighed, dropping his hand. “How about we make a deal, like proper courtiers? You grant me the pleasure of hearing your voice, and in return, you may use it to ask me any question you like. I vow to answer as honestly as I can.”

As honestly as I can, he’d said. Not just honestly. There was a difference.

Yet as he awaited my response, I glanced once more toward the victory cake. The cake he hadn’t served on the day of my imprisonment, nor saved in expectation of my surrender, but had brought me today.

“Why are you celebrating?” I whispered.

His expression brightened, so fond and satisfied that I resented having spoken at all.

I resented it doubly as he answered, vague and chilling all at once, “Because I’m about to get everything I want.”

I gasped upright, panicked, still half-trapped in Erik’s dungeon.

But here, there was just the thick, sweet sunset air pouring like syrup over the white and gold furnishings and the gauzy champagne curtains rippling in a warm breeze.

I shakily exhaled as the nightmare-memory faded. In the stillness, I heard angry voices outside my chamber. The first voices I’d heard since Keil had brought me here.

I’d been exhausted by the time the carriage had rolled toward the sleek pillars and tiered white balconies of his estate. Too worn-out to feel awed, I’d trudged through the arched hallways squinting against the brightness. Then I bathed in fragrant water, ate the meal left on the vanity, and plunged into slumber.

The next day, I found another meal outside my door alongside medicinal vials, some of which I recognized from Tari’s mother’s clinic, and others I’d never encountered. A note penned in unfamiliar handwriting read, Keep the stitches dry! and had been signed W.

Now, no longer wanting to sleep, I wrapped a silk robe over my nightdress and padded across the sun-warmed floor. I opened the door, and the speakers—Valeria and Goren—snapped their heads toward me.

Valeria’s expression immediately softened. While she was dressed similarly to when we’d first met, Goren now wore a black drawstring shirt tucked into dark trousers. His ash-brown hair was in a topknot, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Although he must only have been around Keil’s age, his muscled forearms were lined with the amount of scar tissue I imagined a warrior would accumulate in a lifetime.