Page 23 of Sinful Embers

He stands, grabbing a stack of journals and pushing them toward me. "Read these. I know they won’t paint your mother—"

"Vivienne," I cut in sharply. "She was just Vivienne to me."

His lips twitch. "Noted."

Then, suddenly, he coughs again. Violently. This time, when he wipes his mouth, I see the dark smear of blood on his handkerchief.

A chill rushes down my spine. What the hell?

"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice wary.

He nods, tucking the handkerchief away. "Allergies. The dust down here sets them off."

Bullshit.

Something Vivienne once told me tickles at the edges of my mind, just out of reach. Then, like a switch flipping, I hear myself say:

"I shot you."

Timir arches an eyebrow. "Did you?" His tone is mild. "Tell me, Leigh, why would you do that?"

The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Because Vivienne drummed it into my head to shoot you with the golden arrow. The silver one was for the man with my father’s face. Both were laced with poison."

Timir exhales, shaking his head. "She didn’t just turn you against me, Leigh. She turned you into a weapon."

Then, like a slap to the face, another memory slams into me.

My eyes drop to the scar on my arm. My stomach twists violently.

"It was Vivienne," I whisper. My throat tightens. "She really did shoot me."

Timir coughs again, steadying himself against the table. "Do you remember that day?"

I shake my head, frustration bubbling. "No. I just remember the pain. It felt like a fire raging through my bloodstream.

“I know that feeling.” Timir’s words are so faint I nearly don’t hear them. Timir’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, unreadable. Then, as if deciding something, he steps toward the door. "Lunch will be here soon."

He hesitates, glancing around my cell. "I’ll get you a clock. And a better bed."

I blink, startled by the unexpected gesture. "Wait!" I call after him. "What about the open toilet and shower? I can’t exactly pee or shower when I’m completely exposed." I gesturetoward the pathetic excuse for facilities at the far end of the room.

Timir pauses, nodding slowly. "I’ll see what I can do."

He leaves without another word. A few minutes later, the masked man returns, this time with several others.

They move efficiently, installing a metal rail along one corner of the room and hooking a curtain onto it. Privacy. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Another man hauls in a mattress—an actual mattress—and places it on the cot frame. Fresh linens follow, along with a thicker blanket, pillows, and sheets.

I stare at it all, momentarily thrown off. Why? Why the sudden upgrades?

A small woman, avoiding my gaze, sets down a stack of folded towels, soap, and a few other toiletries. I study her closely, but she keeps her eyes down.

Then, another woman enters, pushing a trolley. The scent of freshly cooked food fills the room, and my stomach growls in response.

Before I can say anything, the masked man sneers. "Don’t get too comfortable, princess." His tone is ice. "Timir might be going soft, but I sure as fuck won’t."

I ignore him, turning to the woman with the food. "Where are we?" I ask bluntly, pushing down the rising unease. "Are we still in America?"

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