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She could have had Damian do it, but then how would she test my loyalty? The anger burns hotter, spreading with wild abandon through my entire body like a match set to kerosene.
But since both mine and Remy’s lives depend on me keeping that particular feeling to myself, I only nod.
“Yes, Mother,” I say, obediently going to grab the familiar vial.
When I hand it to Remy, I try to infuse a warning in my gaze, but his expression is so neutral that I have no idea whether or not he reads it. His fingers brushing mine is an unexpected comfort, even when this is the very last place I want him to be.
I snatch my hand back, knowing I can’t afford to lean into that feeling right now. Besides, it feels selfish in light of what he’s about to experience.
“You drink it,” I tell him quietly. Then I look to Madame for confirmation. “Half?”
“That should be sufficient, given the time constraints,” she agrees.
I nod. It’s the refined version, too, so that will be at least marginally less painful. The relief is short-lived, though, when she speaks again.
“Oh, and daughter? Take him to the chair.”
The blood drains from my face. I remind myself that she always questions people there, even when she doesn’t add physical torture to her serum, but it doesn’t calm my frantically beating heart.
Remy’s eyes meet mine, and I think he’s trying to convey confidence. But all I can see is everything she will do to him when she gets her chance, the ways she might make him pay for this bit of insolence down the line.
If he manages to pull it off at all.
Her truth serum is, like everything else she makes, horrifyingly effective. Years of experience, and I can just barely get around it.
What might he admit under the influence?
The overwhelming likelihood at this point is that she will kill us both, slowly, then work to counteract whatever measures he has put in place.
I walk on stiff legs down the stairs at the back of the room, Remy at my heels and Madame overseeing. She must have given Damian a sign to stay behind. Remy’s eyes widen as we reach the dungeons.
Damian’s blood still coats the drain in the center of the room, as well as the handles and shackles of the iron chair. The coppery scent of old blood would be enough to make anyone gag, if they hadn’t lived half their lives with it, but Remy doesn’t outwardly react.
Only the blades of the torture tools gleam in the miniscule light of the lanterns down here. They’re freshly sharpened and polished. She probably made Damian do it himself after each of hissessionswith her.
I gesture sarcastically to the chair, hoping Remy sees every bit of fury burning in my stare at him for putting me in this position, for making me play any role in this. My hands tremble slightly as I pull the bars around his ribs, locking them into place. By the time I secure his wrists, tears are stabbing at the back of my eyes.
It’s a weakness that will cost us our lives, so I keep them at bay. Barely.
He still holds the vial in his fingers. I pluck it from his grasp and hold it to his lips. His perfect, full lips, the ones that have explored my skin and pressed against my forehead in comfort and smirked endlessly.
I think I hate him for this nearly as much as I hate myself.
* * *
She starts with the obvious questions. How he knew who she was. How he found her.
He grinds his teeth against the fire I know is coursing through his veins, as he tells her that he’s been looking for Madame since he found out about Louis, how he put the pieces together after seeing her threaten his mother at court.
And my shoes.
“There weren’t many women with your power, and your ruthlessness,” he says, impressing me in spite of myself.
It’s subtle, the way he uses flattery against her in the same breath that he blames her own mistakes for his discovery.
She gives him a cold smile, and he goes on to explain that he followed me once he knew he had been drugged.
She asks about his contingency plan, and he tells her that he trusted more than one person with parts of the story, but not all of it.
