“Are you ensuring the job gets done?” A hoarse moan.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Death by poison is for cowards. I, myself, enjoy the theatrics of a blade.”
Hell.That is not helping. Now the thought of a bloody knife stomps around in my mind, and the nausea seems all the worse.
“You got everything out of your stomach, but the poison still lingers. You need water, or you’re going to start heaving.”
“What did you put in there?” He’s right. My muscles are beginning to buckle down again, waiting for a second launch.
“Charcoal, magnesium, fendacia root, and lemondrak leaf,” he says, handing me a glass. “It will protect your organs, expel any remaining doses of the satan root they poisoned you with.”
Satan root.What the hell were they trying to prove?
“How did you get all of that?” Saliva pools in my mouth.
“Do you really think I’d trust the proper nutrition of my body with these disgusting human beings?” He helps me off the floor. I sit up against the toilet so I can drink his concoctions.
I take a sip, and even though there is seemingly no taste, it feels wrong to keep going. Like jumping into a volcano that is scheduled to blow any moment.
“I can’t.” I shake my head.
“Skylenna.” His voice is now low and alarming. He’s kneeling in front of me, eyes embracing mine with a fire, an urgency for me to listen. “By giving you satan root, they’re expecting you to end up hospitalized for a while. They probably weren’t anticipating you’d make it back to this room. I’m certain they imagined you collapsing in the hallway where others would find you.”
I groan again. Why are the women here so insane? How could they knowingly harm me in this way?
“You’re going to drink this. We’re going to fight through it together. And you’re going to leave this room without a scratch. They’ll think you’re an untouchable demon from hell.”
I smile at that. A weak, sleepy-eyed smile.
“Maybe then we’ll have something in common, hmm?” I say, bringing the glass back to my lips to guzzle down.
After making it three-fourths of the way through the first glass, it all comes back out like a burst pipe, tasting like sour licorice.
He nudges the second glass to me. I grunt, smacking my hand down on the bathroom floor. “I want this to be over!”
“One more,” he says.
No. I can’t do one more. If I have to swallow another drop, I’ll explode. I’ll—
But it hits me—did Scarlett have to suffer their evil intentions? Did she go through this torture? The blazing thought of these women hurting my sister sparks an indestructible determination in me to make it through this without harm. Don’t they know her entire childhood consisted of enduring the cruelty of adults? My wounded, sad Scarlett must have taken the beatings, then went home, shielding me from the knowledge of her scars.
I hate them.
I want them toburn.
Dessin is watching me, paying close attention as if he can see the trail my thoughts are running on. I hold out my hand, accepting the second glass.
While I recover on the bathroom floor, Dessin sits in the doorway, picking at his steamed broccoli.
“Why do you treat me differently than you do the other conformists? From what I’ve heard, you’re far beyond ruthless and can instill fear within anyone. Why not me?”
There’s caution in his eyes. He knows the answer and doesn’t have to pay it a second thought. But it’s as if telling me would be breaking unspoken vows.
“I’ll tell you what”— he sets down his plate, running his hand over the lining of his jaw—“when this game is finally over. I promise you will know everything I know.”
“That’s a big promise.”
“Fortunately for you, I don’t break promises.”
