“Thirty years ago.” She slowly stands, walking toward a door I hadn’t noticed. She pauses before it, glancing back with a smile that makes my blood run cold. “You may sit on the couch and watch.”
My body moves without my consent. Muscles twisting. Limbs carrying me to a velvet settee in the corner. I sit because I have no choice.
She let me live all those years ago. When my parents were executed for crimes she probably fabricated. She let me live.
I thought, gods, I actually thought it was mercy. That somewhere beneath the ambition and cruelty, she was still the girl who used to steal pastries from the kitchen with me.
There is nothing good in this woman. There never was.
I sit on the couch and watch as Amarantha twists the doorknob, swinging open a door that squeaks on its hinges. She crosses to her bed, sitting on the edge, raising her knees with theatrical grace.
“I’m getting everything I want.” She leans back on her elbows, eyes glittering.
I’m silent. Cataloguing exits. Calculating options. Finding none.
A man walks out of the doorway. Blinking. Adjusting to the light.
His eyes zero in on Amarantha with an eagerness that makes my stomach turn. His body moves toward her, tongue lapping at his lips.
“Amarantha, don’t.” The warning is pointless, but I say it anyway.
She laughs, enjoying my discomfort. “You think he doesn’t want this? No, cousin. Unlike you, Davis wants to worship me.”
Davis steps to the edge of the bed.
The human looks over at me.
And smirks.
There’s no blankness in his eyes. No magical compulsion glazing his features. Just cold, clear awareness, and satisfaction.
I interrogated this man. Searched for cracks in whatever conditioning Graves used on him. Felt guilt for the methods I employed.
He was never a victim. He was bait.
“Finnian, was it?” Davis’s voice is different now. Sharper. The simpering human act stripped away to reveal something far more dangerous. “The scholar who thought he was too good for court politics.”
He knows exactly where he is. What he’s doing. Who he’s allied with.
He chose this.
“Ash trusted you.” The words escape before I can stop them.
Davis’s smile widens. “Ash trusted everyone. That was always her problem.” He turns back to Amarantha, dismissing me like I’m furniture. “Now. Where were we?”
“You were just about to fuck me.” Amarantha’s voice is as sweet as honey.
“He tortured me.” Davis’s voice shifts to something simpering, performative. Playing a role for Amarantha’s amusement. “Your sword. He asked me so many questions.”
“My poor boy,” Amarantha coos, taking his hand and pulling him closer.
I close my eyes. I can’t watch this.
“Tell me everything,” she gasps. “How did he torture you?”
This is fucked on levels I don’t have words for. I tune them out, turning inward, focusing on everything the Crown knows about the Summer Sword.
There has to be a way out. Ancient bindings have loopholes. They always do.
