Chapter 25
We walk together in silence, but not an easy one. This silence is hard. Rough at every edge, abrasive and weighty. The Piper is all solid steel, aside from the smoke that fumes from his pipe.
By the time we reach his wing, I have a lump in my throat and a pounding in my pulse. The same blond guard who took me to the fiends is at the Piper’s door. But now, the man looks stricken, standing as stiff as a board.
“You’re dismissed,” the Piper grits out. “Send the replacements.”
The guard yanks himself away and disappears down the corridor, but not before he sends me an absolutely scathing look.
I wince.
Okay, so he definitely got in trouble.
The Piper walks inside, but I hesitate in the doorway, looking over my shoulder. Maybe I can make a run for it?
“Unless you want to find yourself in the real dungeons, I suggest you get your ass in here right now.”
. . . And the guards told him about the dungeon talk too.
Swallowing hard, I scuttle inside and the Piper kicks the door shut as soon as I’m through. Then he’s blocking my way, standing over me, with a snarl on his horribly handsome face. “You will explain yourself.”
I glare at the melted browns of his burning eyes and the glint of his perfectly straight teeth. His dark stubble shadows his jaw and gives an edge to his anger. But I don’t care that he stands more than a head taller than me, don’t care that he thinks he holds all the power. I hold power too.
“I’ll explain myself when you do,” I retort.
His eyes flare. “You don’t make demands of me.”
Angry heat pinches my cheeks. “Then I won’t answer them either.”
Fates, if my aunt could hear me now. I don’t know if she’d be proud of my gumption or horrified at who I’ve chosen to lob it at. He’s probably not used to anyone talking to him like this. But for some reason, he brings it out of me.
His anger firms up, hardening his expression, so when he lowers his face to mine, it solidifies every inch of air. “You convinced my guards to take you downstairs without my permission. I hope it was worth it.”
My brow furrows.
“Because you won’t be leaving these rooms again.”
My stomach dips, but I try to staunch my rising panic. “Why? You never told me I couldn’t go down with the fiends.”
He opens his mouth. Realizes I’m right. Shuts it.
His reaction bloats my daring, so I push further. “Why did you take us? What do you want with so many fiends? Where are the other fae?”
Something in his expression flickers, but then he crumbles it into pieces until it’s disintegrated completely.
He turns and strides away, crossing the sitting room without answering me.
He heads toward the high table planted in the corner and goes behind it, pulling out a bottle from beneath a hidden shelf.
He sets down a glass, yanks out the cork, and pours out a slosh of amber liquid.
He watches me over the rim as I walk to the sofa. My fingers come up, gripping the back of it for support.
“Do you really need to be drinking right now?” I ask, my tone acerbic as I motion to his cup.
He arches a brow and then swallows a mouthful.
My eyes follow it—tracking the way his throat bobs, the line of his neck etched with muscle and sinew. The way his veined hand grips the glass, just like he gripped my neck . . .
Fates.
Hating myself, I smother the memory and turn to look at the empty fireplace. Something bitter and cold locks onto the back of my tongue. “You’ve stolen me without any remorse whatsoever and have the audacity to stand there and act like you owe me no answers. You’re disgusting.”
The bottle slams down on the table, and I flinch.
“Just so we’re clear,” he growls, making my eyes yank back to his face, “you are not permitted to leave these rooms unless I give you my explicit consent. My guards are already being punished for falling for your trickery. But make no mistake, if you try another stunt like that again, you will be punished too.”
He tosses back the rest of his drink while I give a bitter laugh. “Well, I’ve already been whipped and kidnapped. What do I really have to lose?”
Hostility flashes over his face. “I assure you, I can figure something out.”
Fear burbles, but I refuse to show it. I won’t let him figure anything out. Never let him learn about my family.
Never let him use them against me.
I clench my teeth and shove away from the sofa, stopping in front of him with only the table between us. “Where are the fae you stole? Are they being kept in the castle?” I press, voice raised with frustration. With desperation.
A single brow arches. “Are you done?”
His attitude ignites my hatred and buoys my courage. I find myself reaching over and yanking the bottle of alcohol off the table before he can stop me. “That depends. Are you going to keep asking me questions too?” I demand. “Maybe I should just drink every time I want to ignore you.”
His expression sharpens with antagonism and he jerks his chin. “Go on.”
It’s both a challenge and a warning.
I should toss the bottle against a wall—or at his face.
Instead, I find that I can’t back down. With my heart pounding in my chest, I bring the open bottle to my mouth and tip it back. The liquid coats my tongue like honey, surprisingly thick, and horribly warm.
It burns down my throat, forcing up a cough. The bottle nearly topples over as I set it back down, hand over my mouth as I hack past the muggy heat. I don’t usually drink, so the taste is bitter and harsh.
When I can breathe again, I look up to see a smug expression on his face. No smirk, just pure relish.
“Well?” He braces his hands on the table and leans in, biceps bulging beneath his tunic. “Doesn’t that hit a spot deep in your center—a rousing, salacious heat far more fulfilling than empty questions?”
He speaks in a near-murmur. A tone that’s dark and decadent, like pitch-black velvet. Enough to entice. To muddle.
To smother.
My cheeks heat, but I square my shoulders in defiance. “No. I feel nothing.”
Liar, a voice in my head whispers. I do feel something.
But not from the drink.
It’s from the burr of his tone. The fervid tension in the air. This ever-present lure that’s been hooked into my belly from the moment he spewed a tune from his pipe.
We glare at each other, and I hadn’t even realized I’d leaned in too until my fingertips dig into the grain of the tabletop.
He doesn’t let up an inch with his stare or the malice that pulses in his jaw.
I can almost hear the echo of the song he played—that haunting melody that cast out a net and trapped me.
“Your magic,” I say, hating the tremble that comes out. “It did something to me, didn’t it?”
His brows lower. His voice does too. “My magic only lasts as long as the song.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He picks up the bottle between us and tips it back again, though his eyes don’t leave my face. He chugs down a mouthful, lips pressed right where mine were. I sink my bottom lip between my teeth and bite.
He swallows.
Throat bobbing.
Eyes watching.
He is vicious beauty that basks in dominating fury, and for some Fates-forsaken reason, I’m as drawn to him as a moth to a festered flame.
I fist my hands into my skirt, feeling like I need to flee. Like I might combust.
Hate and heat.
Baited and hooked.
When he lowers the bottle, he drags his sleeve across his mouth to wipe away the trace. My tongue darts out to wet my own.
He tracks the movement, and my lips tingle.
“You will not leave these rooms.” His voice is quiet. His command is deafening.
I square my shoulders. “I will, the first chance I get.”
There’s assessment in his gaze as he looks me over. “Nobody speaks to me like this.”
I can’t tell if he says that more as a threat or just surprise. I don’t care either way.
“Well, Lord Govern,” I go on mockingly, “they say there’s a first time for everything.”
Something flashes in his expression. Something a lot like thrill.
Like a hound, ecstatic in the hunt. Like a fighter readying to launch at his opponent.
There’s excitement in the charge. In the competition.
And I realize, with an abhorred sense of shock, that my pulse is also racing.
That I’m enjoying this as well—pushing at him. Riling him up.
I swear, he can see it the moment I realize it too, because a gleam enters his eye. “Don’t overfill your scale, blight. There’s a balance to games.”
“I didn’t realize I was playing one,” I retort.
“Oh, everyone is playing. I suggest you learn the rules.”
The warning makes my blood sizzle.
His gaze scoops into mine. “That boy,” he suddenly says in a derisive pitch. “Your used-to-be-good-friend. Why was he holding your hand?”
My brows draw down. “What does that matter? I’ll hold his hand if I like.”
“You will not.”
I blink, flabbergasted at how icy his tone has become. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Rearing back, I stare at him. “Who do you think you are?”
But he shakes his head. “No, Estinya. Who do you think I am? Because everyone in this entire castle seems to know how to answer to me. Except for you. When I give an order, you don’t ask questions. You say yes, sir. Shall we practice that again like we did in the forest?”
My anger bristles, full of quills. “Go to hell.”
His teeth bare, more bite than smile, sending terror down my veins. “Hell? Hell cracked open at my feet. Hell flooded over and consumed me. Hell tried to burn me alive and I survived it. Hell is nothing to me. So be very careful, or you will be the one to get burned.”
His words pierce, plunging into me with ferocity.
Still holding the bottle, he snatches his empty glass and moves out from behind the table. I stiffen, but he walks right past me, heading toward the door.
I follow at his heels. “You’re leaving?”
No reply.
I rush forward as he pulls the door open. I grip it with my hand before he can shut it. “Don’t just lock me in here,” I hurl at his back. “This isn’t right. I did nothing wrong to be taken away from my home and be trapped here.”
He turns, shoulders bunched, expression dark. He looks at me like I’m a speck of dirt he wants to scrub away.
“This isn’t right?” he taunts, his gaze turning mean. “Look around. Brekon hasn’t been right since it cracked open. All of us are caught up in the aftermath. Banes, fae, Core, fiends. You are not so special that you get to escape the repercussions.”
My hate scratches. Scores and scuffs the inside of my skull hard enough to leave marks. How could I have been tempted to inch toward him just moments ago, when all I want to do now is toss him off the nearest cliff?
“Special? You think I have ever felt special in my entire life?” I spit. That’s not what I mean to retort, but the words come tumbling out anyway. “I’m a fiend. We’re not special. We’re the muck under everyone’s shoe.”
He watches me in that heady, restless silence of his, but it’s too late for me to stop.
My tone turns bleak, emotions far too close to my rippling surface. “It’s true that we’re all caught up in the after. But unlike you, I have never, ever hurt someone intentionally. So, no. This isn’t right, and I won’t let you try to convince the both of us otherwise.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said so many words against someone at one time. Don’t think I’ve ever stood up for myself like this.
But I think I may have just burned too hot.
Because he shifts so close to me that my breath melts, dripping out in useless rivulets. I can smell the alcohol on him, see the charred flakes of embers in his gaze.
I brace, ready for an onslaught. For him to obliterate me verbally. To punish me physically. But he just flings his hand forward, rips the door from my grip, and slams it closed in my face.
I gape, feeling the reverberations of it across the floor, traveling up my legs, shaking my stomach.
“She is not to leave.” The muffled order must be spoken to a guard on the other side.
I press my ear against the wood, hear the sound of the Piper’s angry stride as he storms away. When it fades, I pull open the door, coming face-to-face with not one but four guards now standing outside it, all of them unfamiliar.
I slam the door again.
Then I turn the lock.
Because if he’s going to keep me in, then I’ll keep him out.
I should feel victorious that I had the last word. Should feel like I’ve won a war.
But instead, it feels like I’ve just shoved myself onto a battleground, and I don’t even have a shield.