Page 98 of Alchemised
Stroud froze, anger flashing like lightning across her face, darkening every line. Helena braced herself to be struck, but Stroud’s mouth pressed into a thin-lipped smile and she leaned over Helena almost tenderly.
“The High Reeve has been married for more than a year without any children to show for it. His Eminence insists Ferron be your first candidate, but I doubt anything will come of it. After everything Bennet did to him, he’s scarcely what I’d call human. After he’s made his attempts, you’ll come back to Central, and I’ll be the one to decide who goes next. For however long it takes.”
Helena’s blood ran cold.
Stroud touched Helena’s chin with the tip of her finger. “With that in mind, I think you’d best learn to watch that tongue of yours. I don’t have to let you keep it.”
Helena did not make another sound until Stroud was gone. Dread welled up inside her like poison, corroding her organs, burning her lungs. She went through the house, every unlocked door, searching the rooms in a desperate frenzy to find something, anything. There had to be something.
Ferron did not reappear until the following evening. When he did, his expression was hard, but his eyes seemed to slide off her, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her anymore.
Her hands started spasming over and over, nerves twinging.
“It’s not tonight,” he said abruptly. “I’m told”—he was still not looking at her—“you won’t be fertile for three more days.”
She wasn’t surprised—
He was a murderer and a necromancer. What reason did she have to think he’d be above this?
Yet somehow, irrationally, she’d thought he was … safe.
Stupid.
“Come here,” he finally said.
She walked mechanically, staring at the buttons on his coat and shirt. He reached out, leather gloves pressing against her jaw, tilting her face up until her eyes met his.
“How much can you see?” he asked, gaze flickering from one eye to the other in comparison.
Helena laughed.
She had no idea when she’d last laughed. A lifetime ago. But the question was funny. Hilarious even.
Every good thing she had ever had in her life was destroyed, every scrap of solace ripped away as though there was nothing left of her now except hurting. She had been imprisoned and violated in almost every way imaginable, and now he would inflict this final atrocity upon her, but he was worried about her eyesight.
She laughed and laughed and then she wasn’t laughing anymore, she was crying. She was crying until she was rocking, back and forth, half screaming, and Ferron just stood there.
She didn’t stop until she was hollow, as though she’d sobbed out everything inside her and now the only thing left was a shell. She was so tired of existing.
“Feel better?”
She swallowed, her throat aching. “No.”
His fingers spasmed, and she watched him curl them into a fist, tucking it behind his back. She knew that trick.
She looked up at him, noticing then the odd pallor and haggard set of his jaw.
Well, at least they were both suffering.
“What were you tortured for this time?” she asked dully, relieved to wonder about something, anything else.
He gave a slight hum. “It was for a few things. As I am frequently reminded, I am a constant disappointment, and now the public, through their vast collective intelligence, has deduced that I’m the High Reeve.”
The news piqued her curiosity. “Was it because you killed Lancaster?”
“I imagine that played a part, and Aurelia’s little fit didn’t help. I had to leave suddenly, and the High Reeve was supposed to be in attendance. International papers are less reluctant to print such theories, so word’s gotten out. I’ll soon be acknowledged as the High Necromancer’s successor.” He gave a grimacing smile. “This previous anonymity was all for my protection, you see.”
“Of course,” Helena said. “So you were only tortured a little bit.”
