In the last hour since we snatched the repulsive fae from the public baths, where he’d turned his efforts toward harassing the young males in attendance, I haven’t touched a hair on his head. Nor have I said a single word. I’ve only walked and watched as he twisted and pulled, trying to extricate himself from the ropes binding him to the interrogation chair, only to realize that the more he tugged, the tighter the ropes became.
He’s either very stubborn or very stupid because the bastard didn’t stop trying until his fingers looked like fat pink sausages and he could hardly raise and lower his chest to breathe.
And still, I circle. Eliciting fear in another is a delicate process, and one I don’t dare rush. I may not get enjoyment from it, but I respect its effectiveness. Well, maybe I get some enjoyment out of it. Only when it’s someone I know deserves it like this sorry excuse for a male.
On the other hand, Lord Fredrick, Troi’s rat-faced interrogator, watching from the corner of the room, is rubbing his hands together as though preparing for a feast and not a torture session. His eyes shine with barely contained glee, and I bet if I checked his trousers, his cock would be a steel rod. A shiver snakes down my spine. How disturbed does a person need to be to get such pleasure from others’ pain? I do my best to avoid Fredrick as much as possible. He does have his uses—namely the ability to snatch a person out of most any situation without being noticed, the way he did Berezin—but that’s where my appreciation for him ends.
Berezin is sobbing, snot dripping down his face, his whole-body trembling. “Please. I’ll give you anything,” he begs. “I have money. And spelled sythra. In my room—black, purple and yellow. They’re all yours. Please.”
Fredrick lunges for the duke, grabs him by the hair and rips his head back. Berezin lets out a cry of pain. “Now, why would we want a pervert’s sythra?” Fredrick asks. The asshole’s completely ruining my ambiance. Worse, he’s too stupid to even think about what the duke just said: he brought black sythra into the palace.
I smack Fredrick across the back of his head. He releases the duke and glares at me in such a way that promises death anddismemberment. I smile at him because he can go fuck himself. “Out.” I point to the door.
“I—” he begins, but I smack him again before he can finish his sentence.
“Out,” I repeat.
His pinched face twists with fury and turns a deep crimson. He’d strangle me right here and now if he could, but he’d lose, and we both know it. Fredrick’s gaze flits to Berezin, who’s so busy sobbing he seems unaware of the war of wills going on just above his head. I raise a brow—a silent rebuke—and Fredrick lets out a huff and turns for the door. I wait for it to click shut behind me before turning my attention back to Berezin, who’s gone silent. He must have heard the door shut.
“Hello?” he asks, voice hopeful.
My response? I resume my circling. Berezin drops his head in defeat.
Why would the duke need black sythra in the palace? I could see him using the yellow sythra to make himself invisible, perhaps, to spy. Though that would require a fairly large stone, or a massive amount of small ones, which is the reason the crown only ships small gems to Dom Nymh. But what use would he have for communing with the dead here in the palace? To contact King Trajon? What would the point be in that? Not that it truly matters because the stones must be fake. Dom Morgana doesn’t allow anyone, beyond their own magi, to leave their mountain with charged sythra. I open my mouth to ask where he got them, then shut it again. Any response would be giving him the upper hand. I’ll just have to confiscate them later.
I kneel at Berezin’s bound feet and grab him by the ankles. That gets him moving. He’s twisting and bucking and kicking—the bastard’s stronger than he looks—but I manage to get his legs on the stool and tie them down, all the same.
“Please. Please,” he blubbers. It’s really starting to get on my nerves now.
I grip him by the nape and squeeze. That shuts him up. “How many times has someone said that to you, your grace?”
“Wh-what?”
“How many times has a person—male or female—begged you to stop and you didn’t listen?”
“I’ve never—”
I yank his head forward and lean in close. “Don’t play stupid. We both know what I’m talking about. How many times have you forced yourself on someone, even after they begged you to stop?”
“Please—”
I release him. “Wrong answer.” I let out a long sigh and push to my feet. “I guess that means I’ll just have to guess.” Ignoring his continued protests, I cross to the rickety table set against the stone wall in the corner of the room. A variety of torture devices—whips, blades, a hammer and nails and so on—are neatly arranged across the length of the table like a macabre smorgasbord. Luckily for Berezin, I’m only interested in the one.
I pick up the cane and return to circling the duke.
“So, I’ll just throw out a number, and you tell me if I’m right.”
More pleading—blah, blah, blah. I crack the cane against the back of his chair. He jumps in his seat, or maybe jerks would be a better word since he can’t really jump all tied up now, can he?
“How about twenty?” I ask, my tone almost jovial. I probably shouldn’t be having so much fun with this.
“Please—”
“No? Thirty?”
“I’ll give you anything.”
“You must really be a glutton for punishment. Forty?”
