He wasn't going to make it to a year.
Vern had won the chess game. He always won.
Torchlight flickered off the iron bars of a cell. Cold stone pressed against his back. He was still in the dungeons – and on the wrong side of those bars. His temple throbbed. Swallowing nausea, Castien struggled to his feet.
A blade swung to his neck. “Don't move.”
"…Vern?" Flashes of memories raced behind his eyes: his blade inches from her head, Jerome’s broken hand, the promise of death. But Anais was alive. She had to have escaped. He held onto that.
Vern narrowed his eyes, sword pulling back but at the ready. "Kneel."
Castien blinked. The word took a while to process. He wasn't sure his body would obey. His knees folded, hit the floor. “Why… Why are we still here?” Why was he still alive?
“The soldiers cleared out a minute ago. We will wait a few minutes longer.” Vern angled his sword lower. The steward never had the air of a cold-blooded killer – dangerous, clever, ruthless, yes, but ‘assassin’ had never seemed to fit him. It did now.
Clad in forest-black leathers, he blended in with the shadows as though he were one himself. Even now, he held his sword to angle the light toward the wall, away from the door. He stood so still, he might have been a statue.
Dark blood stained his armor and his blade. He didn't seem bothered by it. He had eliminated obstacles in his path with lethal efficiency. Of course, he was an assassin.
Had Anais sent him? Not to free Jerome, but to end a traitor.
It didn't matter. The important fact was that she was alive.
“How much did I hurt her?” He didn't know why he was asking.
Anger flared in Vern's eyes. “Do not remind me, courtesan. You should be grateful she is alive.”
Castien's lips twitched in a brief smile. “I am.” He had never been religious, but he offered a prayer to any benevolent deity who might be listening. "Tell her I'm sorry." He had much more he wanted to say. Too much. He met the assassin's eyes. "Kill me. I won't stop you."
There was no other way. They could never trust him again. He couldn't trust himself. It was selfish, asking them to do what he should have done. He was afraid that if he tried, he wouldn't be able to.
The pressure of Vern's sword against his chest was both terrifying and reassuring. He closed his eyes.
"If it were my decision," Vern growled, "You would already be dead. But our Queen wants you alive."
His eyes flew open. "No. Vern, you can’t." He stared into the man's dark eyes. "You can't take me back. Tell her I fought. Tell her that there was no other choice."
"She would know the truth. I will not lie to her."
He raised his voice. "Even to save her life? Please. I tried to kill her! Twice! Don't give me another chance!"
The blade pressed into his skin, drawing a drop of blood. His heart and eyes burned, but he couldn't live with what he'd done.
He took a breath. "She'll forgive you. She'll be alive to forgive you. If you bring me to her alive, she'll trust me again. No matter what you say or do, I'll end up alone with her again. Do you want to find a dagger in her heart next time? Do you want to see her throat slit and her blood soaking the bed–"
The fist to his face came from nowhere.
While he lay on the floor, dazed, Vern bound his hands behind his back. Rope wrapped around his ankles.
"Vern," he groaned. “Please… don’t do this.”
Cloth was stuffed into his mouth.
Vern hauled him over his shoulders. "Octavius believes the conditioning can be removed. I will give him a chance."
Hope flickered, then died. Octavius had missed the conditioning altogether. How would they ever be certain his mind was wholly his own?
It made no difference. He was tired. So tired.
