He weaves it into a braid that tugs at my roots, my head jerking with each forceful twist while I stare at the puddle blooming beneath Lyra’s lifeless body.
“I know we’re off to a rough start, but I’m certain we can overcomeanythingtogether.”
A shiver runs the length of my spine …
And I’m certain he’s delusional.
He yanks my braid so hard my head whips back.
I’m forced to look up at his features pinched with an unreadable expression. “Would it be so hard? To love me?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
He clears his throat, releases my hair, and walks back to his seat.
I stare at the blank wall. Feel like I’m pinned against it.
His chair grinds along the floor, utensils scraping together as he carves into his meal while I choke on the musk of Lyra’s blood.
For a moment, I consider ripping off my necklace. Letting my ugly spill. Until I picture the palace heavy with the reek of fiery death, blackened halls full of the charred remains of men and women who were nothing but innocent bystanders.
“I will give it to them, petal.”
“What?” I rasp.
He stuffs a chunk of meat in his mouth, chewing, one cheek bulging as he says, “The liquid bane. None will take it. The sickness only has a ninety percent mortality rate. Most cling to that sliver of hope with clenched and shaking fists until they draw their last breath.” He shrugs, drowning his mouthful with a guzzle of red wine that bleeds down his chin. “Take your time to mourn, then pick yourself up, plant that dazzling smile on your face, andtry.”
Isit with my back to the bars, legs spread, the laces of my boots so loose they’re gaping. A blazing lantern rests between my thighs, as well as a bottle of whiskey. On a sigh, I raise the bottle and tip it to my lips, drawing a deep gulp that does nothing to warm my insides or smooth my pebbled skin.
The thick, dark-blue cloak Graves lent me is heavy upon my shoulders but appreciated here, where the cold bores all the way to your bones.
Shafts of sunlight shoot down through holes in the ceiling, failing to reach the back corners of the small cell. I steal nervous glances at the pockets of dark, making sure they’re not shifting.
Slithering out to smother me.
Flipping open a fold-up shaving blade, I snap it back into place. Repeat the process again, and again, drawing another glug of whiskey, marinating in the reek of dust, death, and fear steeped within the stone. The lumpy, shit-stained mattress. The single sheet half-eaten by moths.
This place used to feel so fucking big.
Now the walls feel tight, like they’re crowding me.
Chokingme.
I flip the blade again, scouring my prisoner with a virulent gaze.
His hands are tied to the armrests of a worn, wooden chair, the ample folds of his gray robe concealing averydense body. He may live in a shit part of town, but he’s certainly not eating like a pauper—wearing bricks of muscle that almost broke my back lugging him all the way down here.
I’m nothing if not dedicated.
Deep breaths saw through his gaping mouth that’s leaking a string of drool. A snort, then a gravelly moan. He lifts that big, bare, bulbous head off his shoulder, bloodshot eyes landing on me, squinting. The welt on his temple from when I snuck up behind him and knocked him out cold is raised and angry looking.
“Morning, beautiful.”
His eyes widen, gaze dropping to the blade, breathing patterns rallying into a fierce, panicked rhythm as he takes in our cramped confines—no doubt coming to terms with his prickly predicament. Stare digging between the bars at my back, he makes a choked sound as he takes in the sights across the hall. The long-forgotten corpse still clinging to the bars, mouth caught in an eternal scream.
I draw another glug, the chair scraping and bumping against the ground in his effort to wrestle free of his restraints.
“Help!” He screams, shrill and desperate.
