“I’ll put him somewhere safe,” said Erec. “We’ll discuss this in my study.”
Rachelle turned and fled back to her rooms. She had to check, in case Armand had been lying about that too, but she already knew what she would find.
Joyeuse was gone.
Her only hope of stopping the Devourer. Everyone’s only hope. It was all gone, because she had been stupid enough to trust Armand.
“Rachelle? What happened?”
Amélie stood in the doorway, eyes wide. An hour ago, she had been drinking hot chocolate with Rachelle and Armand, and suddenly Rachelle wanted to weep.
“There was trouble,” she said, and took a step toward her. “Are you—”
Amélie flinched and took a quick little gasping breath. She didn’t move to hug Rachelle the way she always did, she didn’t ask if she was all right.
And then Rachelle realized: Amélie was terrified. Of her.
Finally, after three years, Amélie had woken up and realized what sort of monster she had decided to call a friend.
Rachelle’s shoulders slumped. “Go,” she said. “Just get out, now.” She closed her eyes. “Go back to your mother and stay safe. It’s only going to get worse.”
She heard Amélie draw a little shuddering breath. She heard her footsteps run out of the room. But she didn’t open her eyes until she was gone, because she couldn’t bear to watch.
Numbly, she changed her bloodstained clothes. She scrubbed at her hands and face. She checked herself in the mirror: the girl who looked back was stiff and pale and clean—and felt like a stranger.
Then she left and started walking in the direction of Erec’s study. Her skin felt too small for her body, like it was stretched tight over her skeleton and every joint scraped against it as she moved. She wanted to claw herself apart, limb from limb and bone from broken bone, until there was nothing left.
Forgive me if I feel more pity for the people you killed.
Even while he’d kissed her, he’d despised her. Exactly the way she’d always deserved to be despised.
I’ve killed a few, she thought viciously, but he’s killed us all. I’ll let him see the Devourer rise, and then I’ll kill him.
She had the right to hate him for stealing Joyeuse. It wasn’t any comfort.
In Erec’s study, opulence pressed down like the weight of a mountain. The walls were papered in gold and red, hung with gilt-framed paintings of naked, allegorical women. The vast cherrywood desk was carved with a multitude of curlicues. Flowering marble columns held up the mantelpiece over the fireplace.
Rachelle paced back and forth. She wanted to stop thinking of Armand, but she kept remembering the soft sound of his breathing, her hands winding yarn around his fingers, his mouth against hers. If she hadn’t loved him, she could forgive him. If he hadn’t been right about her, she could forgive him. But she had and he was and now she couldn’t seem to stop remembering his words to her over and over, feeling sicker each time.
Finally Erec strode into the room. “Well, I think we’ve put them all away,” he said. “It was a very little plot. To be honest, I’d expected more of our dear saint.”
“What are we doing with him?” asked Rachelle.
“Annoying as it is—if we can stop the news getting out that he was involved, we’ll probably keep him the same way as before, because he’s just so useful. And unfortunately, nobody has yet implicated the Bishop.”
“I can’t guard him again,” she said.
Erec stepped closer. His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Oh, my dear lady,” he said. “Did you start to trust him?”
“No,” Rachelle snapped.
Start was such a short, small word for all the trust she’d given him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d trusted him until now—now when he hated her, when the memories of him were stuck beneath her skin like needles and poison.
“You can’t blame me,” Erec went on reasonably. “I didn’t tell you to be so kind to him.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m only saying—”
Rachelle grabbed the back of his head and kissed him, as savagely as her forestborn had once kissed her.
Erec kissed her back, and then at last the memories fled away. It was like fighting—not because of how fiercely he was kissing her, but because the world narrowed down to a single white-hot moment where she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, could only feel and react. When he finally released her, she staggered back a step.
And the memories were there again. She could still see Armand looking at her. It wasn’t enough.
“Eloquent, but hardly informative. What are you trying to tell me? Is something wrong?” He raised an eyebrow, unruffled as ever.
Rachelle’s heart was pounding. Her body was a clanging discord of hate and grief and raw desire. She’d told herself again and again that she had too much pride to give in to Erec. But what was the use of pride? She was just the king’s mad dog, kept on a leash until she grew dangerous enough to kill. She was just the scraps from the Devourer’s table, useful for killing him but never beloved.
Too much of a coward to face what you’ve done.
It was true. She still liked to believe there was something honorable about her. There wasn’t. She didn’t deserve to have anything good.
If there was something good in her, she would tear it up right now.
“What’s wrong,” she said, her voice low but clear, “is that I’m wearing clothes and you’ve stopped kissing me.”
She really must have surprised him, because he was silent a moment before he laughed and said, “Love me or hate me, you’re never subtle. But you can’t expect me to stop and start at your demand.” He traced her cheek with a fingertip. “Maybe I don’t feel like enjoying you now.”
“Yes, you do,” said Rachelle. “You are desperate for me.” Her fingers wrapped around his. “You belong to me, just like I belong to you.”
His mouth curved upward. The next moment he pinned her to the wall; Rachelle’s body shivered with something not quite fear, not quite desire.
“You’re right,” he said. “You belong to me, and I don’t let go of what’s mine. But I still want to hear you say the words.” He leaned down till their noses were almost touching. “Tell me what you want, my lady.”
She could feel his breath against her face. He was so close, and she was so tired of pretending there was anything right about her.