But beyond that, a new motivation was born. I wanted revenge on Rahil. If anyone was going to die, it ought to be my accursed, blue-bearded husband.
CHAPTER 8
Guttering candles spit out a flickering light in the study where I’d been brought. Beakers with strangely colored liquids bubbled over tiny flames, sending out gases through curling tubes, much like the apothecary room in Rahil’s manor. Shelves were lined with bottles, some with strange contents like whole eyeballs or tentacle pieces.
The world still swam through a haze of pain. The guards had vanished after depositing me on a low sofa; I was alone with the snake-like man in black.
“Watch where you’re bleeding,” he snapped, as though my life spilling out onto his furniture was more offensive than concerning. “That’s imported fur. Do you know how much it costs to clean?”
I blinked slowly at him, mouth hanging open as I fought for breath, then channeled every last remaining ounce of strength into forcing my hand up to the wound site. My fingers came away slick and red and once I caught the man’s gaze, I dragged my blood-coated hand across the armrest,smearing dark crimson onto the white fur in a long, deliberate streak.
His nostrils flared. He didn’t move, but his voice dropped even lower. “Was that supposed to be clever?”
“No,” I panted, leaning back as dizziness and nausea consumed me. Each word weighed heavily on my tongue. “It’s supposed…to be permanent.”
For a moment, his gaze lingered on the stain, then his eyes cut back to me, sharp and calculating. “You think ruining my possessions will give you any leverage here? That’s cute.”
I began to snap back a retort, but my energy was spent. My body fell back against the couch and I gasped for air. This must be what it felt like to die.
“Don’t black out just yet,” the man commanded. He was tinkering around his study, mixing ingredients into a wide-bottomed, narrow-necked bottle. “I need you alive.”
“I’m going…” My voice failed me. I coughed and tried again. “I’m going to die now…just to spite you.”
His smile was razor thin. “You’ll survive. How lucky for you that I’m a healer.”
“Jump off a bridge,” I panted. “I don’t want your help.”
“You may not want it, but you need it,” he sneered and shook the bottle so the contents inside swirled. Colors faded and my vision began to narrow. My feeble words were sapping what little energy I had left. I slumped to the side and my body sagged. Breathing was becoming too much work.
The man jumped to my side, digging one arm behind my back to hold me in place and using the other to push the bottle against my lips. “Drink.”
A harsh, bitter-tasting liquid trickled into my mouth. I gagged, in too much pain to eat or drink. The man let out ahiss of irritation, then released me to hastily bind up my injury. He made no effort to be gentle. When he knotted the fabric, I temporarily blacked out from the pain.
“Wake up,” he said, slapping at my cheek. “You have to drink this.”
He was so close that I could smell the scent of spices and smoke clinging to his clothing, and I hoped his expensive shirt would be ruined by my blood as well. His expression remained infuriatingly calm. A woman was about to die in his study; the least he could do was panic a little. Did he genuinely not care about anything?
“Drink,” he repeated, shoving the bottle against my lips again.
This time, I managed to gulp down a few meager mouthfuls. My head cleared slightly once I swallowed, but I was still in too much pain to sit fully upright.
“You need to drink more,” he ordered. He scooped an arm under my back again to prop me up, then forced the bottle between my lips once more. With each downed mouthful, I felt marginally better and more like my old self.
Finally, I was able to push feebly at the man. “Get…off…me,” I wheezed, then pressed my hand against the knife wound and grimaced.
The moment I pushed at him, he got up and retrieved a sheaf of parchment and quill from his desk.
“I need you to answer some questions,” he said, dipping his quill into an inkpot, prepared to take notes.
“No.”
He gave me a cold expression. “Yes.”
“No.” I propped myself up on my elbow and struggled to rise.
“Yes. Now sit down or you’re going to faint.”
“You can’t—can’t tell me—what to do,” I gasped, thenforced myself to stand just to prove him wrong…and promptly passed out.
