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They are two sadistic peas in a pod, except that while Madame has a purpose for everything that she does, whether it is to further her own power or exact revenge, Damian inflicts pain for the fun of it.
He sidles up next to me on the couch, each point of contact a distinct pinpoint of revulsion. His cruel, flawless features are covered with a beaked mask identified by a small lightning bolt, one I have noticed in passing at dinners.
As much as I would like to believe he stole it or had it replicated, I am sure I can guess what he has done with its original owner.
“Dare I ask how many people you had to kill to get in here? Surely you know that will raise suspicions." A lifetime of practice ensures that I ask this question with little more than irritation in my tone.
He studies me, as though he can sense whatever shred of a conscience I have left, and his posture relaxes a bit.
"You know that I would never be that sloppy." He refuses to answer the part I care most about.
Instead, he takes one of my hands in his. I am absurdly grateful for the thin stretch of leather keeping his actual skin away from mine, but it’s still an effort not to yank my hand back. I fight to keep my breathing even, to stay calm so that Khijhana will as well.
He brings his other hand around and places it on top of mine. To anyone else, it would look like an affectionate greeting, but I feel something jagged press against my palm.
It’s a short-stemmed rose with a single thorn, to replace the one I am supposed to steal. It feels so much heavier than the sum of its parts, laden down with the weight of the betrayal it symbolizes.
I slip it into my cloak pocket before he speaks again.
“Switch them out and meet me outside with the original. I leave for the old man's house tonight." It isn't hard to guess who he’s referring to, though Damian generally disdains anyone else Mother works with.
He means the alchemist.
My mind is racing for a way out of this, but every path seems to lead to the same inevitable destination.
"I haven’t found it yet.” I track each falling snowflake as they drift to the ground, lulling myself into a false sense of serenity to keep Khijha focused on anything but the despair that sinks deep into my bones.
“I told Mother you weren’t ready for this,” he sneers. “Too busy letting the king warm your bed and the chambers of your fragile heart to do what needs to be done?” His words are barely above a whisper as his hand finds its way to my upper thigh.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap back. “We both know I no longer have a heart, let alone a fragile one.” Does he hear the lie for what it is?
I search the skies for answers, staring at the fading crescent moon before I speak again.
“It’s a delicate project. I need another week, at least.”
"I'm feeling generous, so I'll give you until tomorrow night." He reaches up, caressing my cheek. When I keep my gaze transfixed ahead, he jerks my chin toward him more forcefully.
"What do you say?" Condescension drips from his tone, and I want to slap him. Better yet, to push him backward into the fireplace and watch him burn. I wonder if his tone would be so calm then.
But there's no way Madame sent him here alone. She has a system, one man to keep an eye on another, and without knowing who the other person is, I can't risk upsetting her. Not unless I want my sisters to die, or worse.
So, I grit my teeth and say what he wants to hear.
"Thank you.”
He doesn't move from his perfectly poised position with his hand on my face, doesn't huff, doesn't show any outward sign of impatience. He just sits next to me with an eerie stillness until I say the rest.
"Brother."
He looks me up and down with a gaze that is equal parts predatory and lustful, and I wonder if he fantasizes about the myriad of ways he might kill me as often as I dream of his untimely demise.
And maybe I'm as broken as Madame always wanted me to be, because a small, twisted part of me almost hopes that he does.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Idon't leave, even when Damian finally does. I remain seated on the elegant sofa, angling my body toward the dancing fire that has become so familiar to me.
I watch a thousand possibilities for my future play out in the flames and then dissipate into the smoke. In this rare, brief space, I acknowledge the life I might have had, something I have not done since my sister died and with her, whatever tiny part of me dared to dream of something different.
