Page 62 of The False Vow

His volume had risen, just slightly. All sounds of dart-playing had ceased; I could picture him holding on to one, pressing its tip into his palm.

“Lovett and I are fine,” Eliot lied a moment later. “Too bad you can’t add her to your roster. My sister, my fiancée, my lover—is that it?”

I flinched against the door. From inside the room came the sound of Noé’s scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Clio came for me,” he said. “Eliot, after today, you can’t seriously mean to marry her. She would’ve traded you in like a betting chip if she could’ve—and killed Lovett to do it.”

“Do not pretend to care for Lovett.” Eliot’s rebuke was instant, as if he’d prepared it. “You speak of betting chips—do you think your imbecilic scheme is any different? You’re using her, Noé. It is how you are—no cause, no person, has ever mattered to you. To you, the world is just another fool to trick.”

“You truly think me so callous?”

“I know it,” Eliot hissed. “I know you, Noé.”

My fiancé said nothing. The mood in the room had changed again—there was a volatility now, a hot fullness like a balloon swollen almost to the point of bursting. I know it…I know you. I felt the truth behind those words. The care, sown over so many years, and now—abruptly—left to rot.

Beneath the anger, there was sadness to Eliot’s reprimand, like he was laying something in a grave.

A long moment passed before he spoke again. “Lovett is not your ally, you know,” Eliot said. “She is loyal to no one but herself. Whatever deal the two of you have made, she will turn her back on it in a second if it benefits her.”

He punctuated his words with the hurl of a dart. I swallowed as it thwacked against the board—louder this time, more violent. Unprompted, a memory drifted back to me, something he’d said after we’d argued about his partnership with Sybil during the Vainglory: Do not delude yourself into believing you were ever loyal to me…Such inclinations are against your nature.

I hadn’t realized he still believed that. I wondered if he’d ever stopped.

I didn’t expect Noé to reply, but he did. “Do you ever think she might be loyal to herself because no one has been loyal to her?”

I furrowed my brow at that. “I…” Eliot started, then cut himself off. His tone was angrier now; his temper was riled. “She is self-serving,” he spit. “Vicious. I’m only warning you.” A break in his speech. “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”

Nor did I know why I was still listening. Ashamed, I moved away, Eliot’s words echoing in my ears.

She is self-serving. Vicious. So stupid of me to be wounded by his insults when I’d chosen to wait around and listen to them. What had I expected? For Eliot to confide in Noé? For my fiancé—my cold, calculating, heartless fiancé—to convince him to forgive me?

I was an idiot. Hurrying my steps, I started back toward the turret, illogically fearful that Noé would beat me there and realize where I’d been. I had already shown him enough weakness, with my brother in the pub—I’d be damned if I let him glimpse any more.

Upon reaching the turret stairs, I raised my knife again, ascending the steps slowly in case a silkwitch was lurking somewhere along them. I shouldn’t have worried; the stairwell was silent and completely abandoned. When I reached the landing which led to my room, I saw that my door was closed and locked, just as I’d left it.

With a deep exhale, I slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind me—

And cried out abruptly as I was pinned against the wall, a blade to my neck.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The hood of her cloak had fallen back, exposing her features. Even if it hadn’t, I would have known who she was.

I had felt the bite of her knife before.

“Clio,” I coughed out. “Come back for another try?” The other silkwitch did not answer me, though pressed against my collarbone, I felt her arm tense in preparation to drag her blade across my throat. Desperate, I raised my own knife, plunging it into the meat of her thigh.

She shrieked, releasing me. Blood spurted against my back as I collapsed to my knees, my head swimming. How had she gotten into my room? With my Wit focused on deciphering Noé and Eliot’s conversation, it made sense that I’d missed the usual tug at her entrance, but the door had been locked. Had Bastian given her a key?

Surely, that was foul play.

In the same moment, motion erupted from the doorway—Noé, standing in the threshold, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. He faltered as he took in the display before him. “Sisters!”

In my periphery, I saw Clio jump, her hands briefly slipping from where she’d pressed them against the crimson flower blooming through her nightdress. I guessed she hadn’t anticipated Noé’s presence when she’d slunk into my room—now his unexpected manifestation had thrown her, just as he’d insisted to me that it would.

Damn. I hated when he was right.

Through the gloom, Noé’s gaze found mine. He shed his bleariness quickly—one moment, a tipsy fog clouded his irises; the next, his stare was keen. “What’s happened?” he demanded.

Clio did not grant me time to explain. She hurled herself toward me, aiming for the place where I was crouched, helpless, on the floor. Sensing her, I rolled away—but not quite fast enough. Her hand caught my elbow, sending me sprawling onto my back, my knife held straight against my chest.