Page 100 of Kingdom of Crowns and Daggers

“This isn’t a date. This is your gift.” His reply is curt as he turns to me, his face softening for a moment as he reaches out and tugs the hood of my cloak up higher to conceal my face. His hands linger there, the backs of his fingers brushing my cheeks as our eyes meet and something passes between us. He steps back with a clearing of his throat. My body is too hot, my cheeks blushing from that one innocent touch. “Stay here,” Orion mutters before striding forward and greeting the two guards blocking the entrance to the row of cells.

Hope and excitement flip in my stomach, taming the sharp tug of desire. If we’re going into the cells, then I can only assume they captured someone who can give me answers. I try to contain those thoughts, though, because I doubt that is possible. I killed all of the assassins at the lake house.

Silent, I wait for Orion to finish talking to the two guards. They glance over his shoulder as he speaks, trying to get a look at me, so I make sure to angle my head down a little, making it next to impossible for them to identify me. I can’t hear what they say, but after a few moments, Orion beckons me forward.

Not waiting for me to close the distance, he moves past the guards and works his way down the row of cells. Most of them are empty, just a few drunk males fast asleep in their own piss. At the bottom, sequestered away from the others, is a skinny male.

Orion stops by the cell and opens the door, gesturing for me to enter. As soon as I step inside, the ominous clang of the metal lock sliding into place behind me causes a chill to run down my spine. When I glance over my shoulder, my surprise must show on what little of my face is showing because Orion winces.

“I have to speak with the guards.” He rubs his hand across his shaved head, his voice gruff as he stands outside the cell he just locked me in. “You’re free to do what you need to. I’ll be just outside.”

Realisation hits me as I watch him walk away. He isn’t staying with me because he’s giving me free rein to do what I need to with the prisoner. His morals won’t allow him to just watch if I have to get a little more . . . persuasive. Who is this skinny male, and why was I brought here?

“So you’re alive.”

The thick, accented voice causes my back to stiffen, and I turn to face the prisoner. His face is no longer covered, his features unremarkable, yet thanks to his voice, I know exactly who he is. He’s one of the assassins from the attack, perhaps from the roof? He’s thin and looks pale, yet he’s on his feet and crouched in a defensive position. His ankle is chained to a ring embedded into the concrete walls, and there’s a look in his eye that I recognise from spending most of my adolescence growing up in the Lowers—hunger. He looks as though he’s not eaten a full meal in weeks. Perhaps he hasn’t. It would not surprise me to discover they are starving him. He did try to kill their king after all.

Pursing my lips, I make an exaggerated appraisal of him then change my expression to make it clear that I’m not impressed by what I see. “I could say the same for you.”

As far as I was aware, all of the assassins were killed. It seems we missed one.

He laughs, the sound quickly turning to a hacking cough. “I am the last. You killed my comrades.”

“Shame that I missed one. My skills must be slipping.” Glancing down at my fingers, I examine my nails as though this is all a colossal waste of my time. Sighing dramatically, I look back up at him. “Never mind, I’m sure we can fix that.” I tilt my head to one side. “Or we could have a little talk, assassin to assassin.”

During this time, the assassin’s smirk dropped and was replaced by a glare that tells me this is not going to be an easy interrogation.

“I’m telling you nothing.” He spits at me, and I watch it as it lands at my feet.

Glancing at the disgusting glob of spittle just inches from my boots, I slowly lift my gaze back to his with a raised brow. “I think you’ll find I’m a very patient woman.”

Pushing up my sleeves, I stalk over to him. To be fair, he does not move back to put more distance between us or try to get away. He simply grits his teeth and stands firm.

Smiling at him, I cross my arms over my chest. “Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, snarling at me with such force that his spittle lands on my face.

Without giving him time to prepare for it, I slam my knee up and into his solar plexus, nodding to myself as he curls up in pain. I had been expecting this sort of reaction, so I’m not irritated that he won’t tell me. We still have time.

“Tell me who ordered the attack,” I repeat, my order firm and promising pain if he denies me.

“Fuck you,” he repeats, mocking me.

Sighing, I shift my weight and twist my torso, swinging my leg up and around to slam my foot into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. He attempts to get up, pressing his hands to his head as he waits for the world to stop spinning.

I do not wait for that. Instead, I repeat my question, expecting the same reaction.

This goes on and on until it reaches the point where he is barely recognisable, his face swollen and bruised. It is getting more difficult for me to keep him conscious, and he is useless to me unconscious. I’m usually more patient than this, but I’m exhausted after having been so unwell—not that I will admit that to anyone. Also, I have no idea how much time I have before someone comes into the cell. Orion will give me some warning, but it could be at any time. The guards didn’t want to let me down here in the first place, so I have to be quick before they come to investigate.

It’s time to turn it up a notch.

Moving back from his battered form, I lean against the bars and watch him with a reluctant smile, raising my bruised fists in a show of what is to come. “Okay, my friend, tell me something,” I suggest. “Anything about the attack, or I will be forced to continue.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.” His words are slurred, but I can still hear his hatred for me.

Reaching for the secret pocket in my dress, I remove the small wallet I slipped in earlier and open it up to reveal sewing needles. I raise them so they glint in the light. “I’m sure you know this, but during interrogations, sometimes a small, sharp object is pushed under the fingernail of the prisoner. That’s you in this case.” I smile and shrug. “I happen to have several needles.”

When I kneel in front of him, he attempts to shuffle back, fear finally flashing in his eyes. He knows this is going to be excruciating, and his body has had enough.

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