Chapter 124 His Betrayal
The copper tub was large enough to drown in.
Steam curled off the surface of the scalding water, carrying the heavy scent of crushed jasmine and expensive, imported oils. I stood in the center of the lavish bathroom, my ruined dark grey mourning dress pooling in a heap of torn, bloody wool at my bare feet.
I stepped into the water.
The heat bit into my skin like a swarm of angry wasps. Every scrape on my legs, every deep bruise on my arms, and the sharp cut on my cheekbone screamed in protest. I sank down until the water reached my chin, closing my eyes as the clear liquid immediately turned a cloudy, rusted pink.
It was Klaus’s silver blood washing off my skin. It was the grime of the unhewn stone dungeons and the dust of the polished Throne Room.
I grabbed a harsh sea sponge from the silver tray resting on the edge of the tub and began to scrub. I scrubbed until my skin was raw and glowing an angry, irritated red. I wanted to scrape away the memory of the Emperor’s milky, blind eyes. I wanted to scrub away the devastating, hollow look that had completely shattered Klaus’s face when he believed my lie.
But no amount of scalding water could wash away the heavy, suffocating silence sitting in the center of my chest.
The wall of freezing ice I had built around the blood-bond was holding. It had to hold. But keeping it solid required a constant, exhausting mental effort. It was like pressing my bare hands against a cracked stone dam, feeling the terrifying, crushing weight of a dark ocean pushing back on the other side.
I knew exactly what was happening in the holding cells beneath the arena.
The Emperor had ordered Klaus to be starved. The heavy iron suppressor collar was actively draining his immortal reserves, burning the pale skin of his throat, and slowly letting the feral hunger take over his mind. He was sitting in the pitch dark, chained to a freezing stone floor, completely alone, believing that the woman he loved had traded his life for clear water.
I dropped the sponge into the water. It floated on the pink surface, heavy and useless.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my wet arms around my shins, and rested my forehead against my kneecaps. I didn't cry. I had shed all my tears on the plush white rug in the bedroom hours ago. Crying wouldn't save Klaus. Crying wouldn't put a blade through the Emperor's throat.
I needed strength.
I forced myself out of the tub. The cold air of the suite hit my wet skin, making my teeth chatter violently. I wrapped myself in a thick, white linen towel and walked back into the main bedroom of the West Tower.
The servants had come and gone while I was bathing. A fire roared cheerfully in the marble hearth, casting dancing orange shadows across the plush rugs. On a small, polished mahogany table near the tall windows, a silver tray waited.
It held a feast. Roast pheasant, thick slices of warm bread, sharp cheese, and a crystal goblet of clean, clear water.
My stomach cramped painfully at the smell. I hadn't eaten a full meal in days. My body was running on pure adrenaline and the lingering, fading magic of the First King's blood I had shared with Klaus.
I walked over to the table and sat down. I picked up a piece of the warm bread. My hand shook slightly.
Eating while Klaus starved in the dark felt like the ultimate, unforgivable betrayal. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to push the tray away, to share his suffering, to hollow out my own stomach in solidarity.
No, I told myself, gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned stark white.
Tomorrow night, the Emperor was going to hand me an obsidian dagger. I would have one chance, a single fraction of a second, to pivot and drive that blade into a fully armored Imperial guard. If I was weak, if I hesitated because my muscles failed from starvation, we were both going to die on the marble floor.
I forced the bread into my mouth. I chewed mechanically, swallowing the dry lump past the tight knot in my throat. I drank the clean water, feeling it soothe my cracked lips and parched airways. I tore the meat apart with my fingers, focusing entirely on the heavy, grounding weight of the food hitting my empty stomach.
I was not eating for comfort. I was fueling a weapon.
A sharp, singular knock echoed from the heavy mahogany door of the suite.
Before I could speak, the iron deadbolt slid back. The door swung open.
Lady Vespera stepped into the room.
She had changed out of her blood-red riding habit. She wore a sleek, form-fitting gown of midnight blue silk, her pale shoulders bare, her dark hair pinned up in an intricate, jeweled style. She looked like a predator walking casually into a cage with a wounded bird.
Two Imperial guards stood in the hallway behind her, their heavy halberds crossed. Vespera snapped her fingers, pointing to the floor inside my room.