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She would spin a tale where I was the victim, where I hated this life as much as she did. Now that the truth is out, I have no desire to cover over it with a sob story that wouldn’t be close to the truth.
Besides, the only thing worse than his open disdain would be his pity. So I hold up my hand to silence her, shaking my head.
“Or second favorite,” I offer before taking another drink. “Depending on how our dear brother is faring.”
Zaina’s face sours at that, and I know Remy notices, just like he’s noticed every nuance of our interactions since she strode into the room. What I don’t know is what he’s gleaned from it all.
“And how does that work, exactly?” he muses. “You do her bidding until you feel like bringing down her empire on the side?”
His tone wavers somewhere between disbelief and the smallest increment of hope, like the last ember of a dying flame on a wintry night.
And here I come, an avalanche ready to snuff it right out.
“No, Remy.” Impatience bleeds into my tone, though it’s not entirely directed at him. “I don’t bring her empire down. The vigilante, those men, it had nothing to do with her, really. She would have been furious because it didn’t benefit her, but they weren’t even one of her larger sources of revenue. That was about them, and what they did.”
He openly scoffs this time, his walls slipping to reveal features coated in disbelief. “Whattheydid? Tell me, Aika, what does someone have to do to rate being punished by you, since somehow the slavers themselves make the cut, but your precious Madame doesn’t, even though she both employs the slavers and profits directly from their crimes.”
I don’t have the energy to explain to him the checks and balances that make up my dubious moral code or to argue the semantics of allowing a crime to happen versus perpetrating it.
Those dilemmas feel murkier by the day. Taking the coward’s way out, I return to the matter at hand.
“My rationale isn’t the issue here,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “My ability to keep your family out of danger is.”
He looks away, visibly gathering himself. “So I promise not to go after her, and you’ll keep them safe?”
I nod.
“What’s in it for you?” he asks.
That question hurts almost as much as the monster comment did, considering the safety of the arsehole who asked it is the only thing I get out of any of this.
“Staying in everyone’s good graces keeps me alive,” I remind him. “If you have any more stupid questions, kindly get them over with so I can get on with this.” I gesture vaguely toward my body, still encased in the blood-soaked fabric.
He meets my eyes, resignation shining from his own. “No, no more questions. Everything you reveal is a fresh show of horrors. I’m not sure I could take one more truth from you right now, let alone another lie.”
* * *
Remy fled to the lavatory soon after his charming commentary on my life, citing the need to give us privacy for Zaina to finish binding my wounds and to help me change.
He isn’t fooling anyone, of course. We all know he’s desperate to get away from me.
Honestly, I’m just as eager for him to leave. I would volunteer for another two-day stint in Mother’s favorite footwear before choosing to hear that edge of defeat in his tone directed toward my general failings as a person.
I take another swallow of whiskey, letting it warm me from the inside out as I try to push our conversation out of my mind. Maybe Zaina knows I need a moment to collect myself. Or maybe, like me, she just doesn’t know what to say.
She pulls yet another vial from her endless case of them and gestures toward my face, taking one of the few remaining cloths that aren’t stained with my blood in her other hand.
“This is just to get the face paint off.” Her voice is low and calm, complementing the quiet rather than shattering it.
I nod, a wry grin tugging at my lips in spite of myself. She really does think of everything.
With hands more gentle than Mother’s have ever been, Zaina systematically removes every trace of cosmetics from my face, then re-treats each injury she uncovers, coating the small cuts and bruises with the same soothing balm she used early this morning in her rooms.
Every time she tilts her head, the scent of jasmine wafts toward me. It covers the coppery tang in the air and threatens me with the kind of comfort I can’t afford to lean into.
I do it anyway, knowing I’ll regret it later. Because I am too tired to do anything else, and hell, because she’s my sister and I’ve spent months thinking she was dead, but she’s here, still protecting me and taking care of me in the way I never allowed her to before.
Even if she will leave again after all of this is over.
