Page 113 of The Crimson Throne
Nausea is potent and tart, grabbing my stomach in a lurch.
Just one more time. Swallow it down, so I can bringhimdown.
The only thing I gotta focus on is getting Darnley to confess what Red Cap weapon he’s fixing to use so we can stop Mary from being killed.
A slow breath does nothing to soothe my disgust or calm my racing heart. My hands are shaking, muscles sore from the ride or maybe just from how tight I’m holding myself.
I knock once. A beat passes, and a voice calls me to enter.
Inside, Darnley’s in the middle of packing, overseeing servants putting his shit into chests. He’s barking at a man who’s bent double in apology, the whole atmosphere of the room tense with discomfort, waiting for a blow to land.
Darnley whips a scowl at me.
The last thing I expect is for him to grin. It’s like whatever he was upset about vanishes instantly, and the full brunt of his sudden happiness feels like a hand around my throat.
I can’t shake the overwhelming feeling I just walked into a trap.
Before I can say anything, Darnley snaps at the room, “Leave us.”
The servants hop to obey. In a flash, they’re gone, shutting the door in their wake.
It’s just me and Darnley. My eyes go to the fireplace, where a low flame burns. Is Kitty here or one of the other brownies?
My throat scratches as I swallow. “Sir?”
Darnley’s smile goes a bit cruel. A sick, obnoxious twist. “We heard you were out with that Leth bitch,” he says, and my hands ball into reactive fists that I keep locked at my sides.
“She offended you last night,” I try, saying it through my teeth. Hopefully he takes my anger as on his behalf, the self-centered prat. “I thought I could get in with her, figure out what she—”
“Get in with her,” he echoes.
Then he’s laughing. Hysterical, giddy laughter. Holding his stomach, howling to the floor.
My jaw drops. Unease prickles up my arms.
Darnley sobers, wiping away tears. “Look at you, positioning yourself just so without even being told. You are the only weapon we have ever needed. Perfect, Samuel. Perfect.”
My whole body goes stiff.
Weapon.
No.
Oh no.
“We are leaving for Kirk o’ Field,” Darnley continues. He smooths a wrinkle in his sleeve. “Now is the time—you will finish this for us tonight. Do you need incentive, or are you equipped to proceed yourself?”
“You want me to—”
“Kill her. Yes.” Annoyance mars his face now, and he nods at the door. “Go. Finish it.”
I see all my errors now. Every single one rippling up around me in a knotted rope of my own stupidity.
I’mthe tool Cecil mentioned in the letter.
I’mthe weapon.
My jaw sets, body seizing against the shaking in my muscles. I won’t let them go.
