Page 43 of Spark of Madness

“And how has this trial been delivered in the past?” Owen asks.

My eyes catch Mercy as she gapes at me, her wide, wild, silver-blue eyes blinking at me. She opens her mouth to speak, but I quickly lift her wineglass to her lips and tilt it. She can choke on it…or she can accept my kindness in taking control of her nervous actions.

A fierceness washes over her features as her eyebrows straighten to frame her narrowed and intentional stare. Closing her parted lips around the rim, she lets me tip another sip into her mouth.

My heartbeat doubles its pace as I watch her swallow, her throat working as she takes down gulp after gulp, nearly draining the glass.

“Once, there were three participants,” I hear Killian explain, though his voice seems fainter than before, “and they were made to serve the entire village for a night.” I strain to listen, but everything is fading around me as Mercy manages to draw my full attention. “Another time, there was only one servant, and she was made to...” His voice fades entirely to the background.

I watch Mercy drink, and when she’s nearly drained the glass, I pull it away and set it on the table. I take my clean napkin from my lap and use it to dab at the corners of her lips. For good measure, I swipe my finger—covered by the cloth—across her bottom lip, intent on catching the wine that slipped out when I pulled the glass away.

But then I swipe again, even though I don’t need to, noting the way the center of her lip has an extra tuft of plumpness that dips in the center to create that beautiful, sweeping curve.

“Arlo,” Owen says, snapping me back to life.

“Yes?” I twist turn from her, placing the napkin on my lap.

“You’re the warden for the trial participants,” Owen says. “Do you wish to have a final say over the manner in which the trials are carried out?”

Yes.

No.

On one hand, I want that level of control over Mercy’s fate—though I know that would be dangerous to my own suffering self-control. Furthermore, whatever is imposed on Mercy is imposed on Delle, and there’s something about her participation that feels...bothersome.

“No,” I decide. “I think we should decide collectively, as a group.”

“I have a proposal,” Ryker leans back in his chair, nursing a devious grin as he locks his fingers together behind his head and stretches back.

“Go on,” Killian encourages.

“Perhaps the seven of us can come together to trial their ability to serve.” His gaze shifts between Mercy and Delle. “Seven men for seven hours.”

“Do you mean one per hour?” Park asks.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not,” Ryker leans forward. “If we’re meant to push the boundaries of service, wouldn’t more than one man at a time achieve that end? Given that a normal night of service allows for only one man per servant at a time.”

“Seven men in seven hours.” Park’s expression indicates consideration. “I suppose that does have a nice ring to it. It feels like poetic justice.”

I glance at Mercy without turning my head, curious to see her reaction to all this discussion happening right in front of her. Though she has no right to speak on any of this, I still find myself hoping this will provoke her, and I don’t know why I hold that hope.

Perhaps because the thought excites me.

Perhaps that’s precisely why I’m a danger to myself and everyone around me because I didn’t purge.

In any case, she’s seething at my side, her bound fists balled in her lap, and the corners of my lips twitch to smile.

“Seven in seven,” Killian says. “I like the sound of it. But Ryker is right, one at a time certainly doesn’t push the boundaries of service. It’s a trial, after all, so we’d need to think on that.”

My hand snaps to the side and I wrap my fingers around the rope coiled between Mercy’s wrists. Lifting them above the tabletop, I drop them down without warning, and her fists collide with athudthat draws everyone’s attention, as I meant it to. She huffs at me, but I ignore her.

“What if I string her up?” I offer. “Put her on display for a day inside the Homestead? Her body can be used by any one of us as we see fit. One at a time or multiple—she’ll be helpless for seven hours.”

“Them,” Killian corrects me with narrowed eyes. “You saidher,but of course, you meanthem.You speak of one participant, but don’t forget there are two.”

My fixation on Mercy is evident, and I can’t allow that. I need to get control of myself, lest I be judged for lack of self-control.

I clear my throat and ensure I’m turned squarely toward the table. “Yes, forgive me.”

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