9. Chapter 9
The next morning, the blinding fog of the hangover had cleared, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve.
I strode down the subterranean corridors of Blackthorne with my chin held high, my boots striking the stone with rhythmic defiance. My eyes were hardened, fixed straight ahead.
Today, he wouldn't rattle me.
He was a prisoner bound by cold iron and reinforced steel, locked in a cell. I had the keys; he had the chains. There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.
I unlocked the heavy door and stepped confidently into his cell, immediately meeting those bottomless dark eyes.
It wasn't an accident this time; I forced myself to hold his gaze for a long, defiant beat, silently chanting a mantra in my mind: He's just another inmate.
Just flesh and bone. With a steady hand, I lowered my mop to the floor and began my work.
For a few blissful, tense moments, the Jester remained perfectly quiet.
Then, the silence broke.
"Oh, look at you," he purred, his voice a velvety, mocking drawl that made my skin prickle. "A completely different little bird today."
I ignored him, keeping my rhythmic strokes smooth and deliberate.
"Though, if you're going to put on such a grand show of bravery, doll, you might want to actually do the job," the Jester tsk-tsked. "Look to your left. No, your other left. You missed a spot. A rather nasty bit of dust, right by my boot. Chop, chop."
My jaw tightened, but I kept my lips sealed, moving the mop to the opposite side of the cell.
"Sugar plum, is that your maximum speed?
Those little arms of yours look like twigs.
Tell me, does the Warden not feed his staff, or do you just lack the muscle to push a mop properly?
I've seen elderly cobblers with more upper-body strength.
At this rate, the centipedes will have grandchildren before you finish sweeping. "
He leaned forward, his porcelain mask tilting with intolerable amusement. "Flex those muscles. Put some spirit into it! Or do I need to ask the Warden to send a real guard to show you how a big, strong girl handles a broom?"
The relentless, dripping sarcasm clawed at the frayed edges of my patience. The humiliation, the mocking tone, the sheer arrogance of an inmate chained to a wall treating me like his personal entertainment finally snapped something inside me.
I slammed the mop handle hard against the stone floor, the echoing crack cutting him off mid-laugh.
"That’s enough!" I snarled, turning to face him fully, my chest heaving as the carefully manufactured calm completely vanished. "Just stop. Okay?”
My chest heaved as our gazes locked. Behind the narrow slits of his porcelain mask, those bottomless dark eyes seemed to widen, absorbing my outburst. The hot spike of anger in my veins instantly turned to ice.
I realized, with a sickening jolt in my stomach, that I had lost control and in doing so, I had broken the cardinal rule of Blackthorne.
Why did I let him break me so easily?
Normally, ignoring the prisoners was as natural as breathing.
I had spent months tuning out the desperate cries of the inmates.
They tried everything—egging me on with vulgar insults, whispering sweet promises to charm me, spinning pathetic sob stories just to win an extra scrap of food or a moment of sympathy. I had never cracked.
Yet the Jester had dismantled my armor in a matter of minutes.
Why did he rattle me so much?
The Jester didn't laugh this time. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall, a soft, breathless murmur escaping that sounded almost like awe.
"Ah...so the little bird does have some fight in her after all."
He shifted, the heavy chains rattling. Those dark eyes gleamed as they locked onto mine again, narrowing into something very, very dangerous.
Interest.
"I like that," he whispered. "I like that very, very much."
“There is nothing to like,” I said, my voice deadpan, though the cold metal of the door handle felt like ice against my palm. “I am just here to do a job. And that is that.”
The Jester’s head tilted, his gaze tracking the slight tension in my shoulders with the rapt attention of a cat watching a mouse twitch. He let out a low, mocking tsk-tsk sound as he lifted a hand to press two fingers against his own lips, right where the gag had been.
"Just a job," he repeated, tasting the words like they were a joke only he understood.
"You don't wash away a man's life with that much care unless you feel the weight of it.
You liked the order of cleaning my mess, didn't you? Putting my beautiful chaos back into its neat little boxes. We’re partners now. I create, and you perfect."
"Don't flatter yourself."
He surged forward, the suddenness of the movement making the chains squeal as they caught on the wall anchors.
"Flatter myself? Never. But I know ownership when I see it. You've stepped into my world, sweetface. You put your hands on my art. That makes you part of the exhibition."
A shudder tried to work its way up my spine, but I forced it down, squaring my jaw. "I belong to the state payroll, Jester. Not to your gallery."
I turned to alert the guards, but his voice caught me.
"Go ahead and run along... but make sure you mop real carefully next time, doll. I hate to think of you slipping into my arms before we’ve even had our first real dance."