Chapter 10
Ignoring Yanken, who quietly mumbled and stared at him, Lars lifted his teacup. The stale scent of stone-cold tea rose to his nose. As his brow furrowed, Yanken spoke in an even, unbothered tone.
That night, it was Lars who had stopped him from killing Lucien to silence whatever she might have overheard. Anticipating the same old argument, Yanken watched a cynical edge creep across Lars's face and pressed on.
Spitting out the words with chilly detachment, Lars looked quietly at his loyal escort. Yanken looked as though he had more to say, but he held his tongue. He knew the outcome of the debate was already set in stone.
Breaking the awkward silence, Lars set his cup down, and Yanken dipped his head.
Rising from his seat, Lars grabbed the cloak hanging on the wall. He gestured with his chin toward Yanken, whose eyes widened in curiosity.
Yanken stared blankly at Lars's back as he swung the cloak over his shoulders and exited the room. It took him a few beats to understand what ‘firewood’ meant.The dungeon was cold. Perhaps it was just the atmosphere. Surrounded on all sides by stone walls, the only light came from the flickering shadows of torches, and between the stench of earth and oil hung a stale, coppery reek.
From somewhere in the distance came someone's agonized scream, drifting through the dark like a fever dream. I kept my trembling hands clamped tightly together. The slight man who introduced himself as Peterson sat across from me, his eyes boring into mine behind an oily smirk.
As Peterson twirled the tip of his mustache between his fingers, I swallowed hard. My lips felt parched and cracked.
Clicking his tongue, Peterson tossed something lightly onto the table. My eyes dropped to a gold badge that spun with a metallic rattle before coming to a stop.
My trembling worsened. Terrified that showing tension would only invite deeper suspicion, I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails bit deep into my palms.
Sneering, Peterson began to circle me like a vulture.
Smiling grease, he fingered his mustache. His lips, glistening with spit, turned my stomach.
I stared at him in stunned disbelief. I wondered if he was joking, but shockingly, he seemed entirely serious.
Who on earth would kill someone and leave the corpse stuffed inside a mere closet? Peterson clearly took me for a ten-year-old fool. Parting my trembling lips, I barely managed to speak.
At Peterson's snort, I lowered my gaze.
If I had wanted an alibi at the theater, why would I have admitted with my own mouth that I went home?
Appalled by his relentless, browbeating logic, I mustered the courage to push back.
I should have known men like Peterson despise nothing more than being openly contradicted. His eyes went wild, and his voice rose to a screech.
He slammed both hands violently against the wooden table, making me jump in my skin. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.
Everything Peterson was saying was an incoherent mess, but my tangled thoughts choked me, leaving me unable to form words. A sly, venomous grin touched Peterson's lips.
Unable to bear it any longer, I caught the hole in Peterson's words and shouted back. At once, the flushed, agitated officer's eyes narrowed into slits.
They were the eyes of a serpent flicking its tongue upon sighting fresh prey. The corners of his mouth crept slowly upward.
A sudden chill ran through me, as if every drop of blood had drained from my veins. The gears in my hollowed head spun in a frenzy.
The priest was deeply suspicious. After all, he had been lurking in a theater teeming with corrupt souls at that ungodly hour. Besides, revealing that someone accompanied me home wouldn't prove my innocence in the slightest. He hadn't stepped inside the house to verify the scene with me.
Given Peterson's coercive brutality, the priest could easily be framed as an accomplice to the baron's murder simply for walking with me. In fact, that was exactly what Peterson would do.
…Not that. Anything but that.
Never.
My parted lips snapped shut in defense. Seeing my eyes darting in panic, a look of smug satisfaction spread across Peterson's face. Leaning close, he breathed his rank stench directly into my face and whispered.
“You wagged that little oiled tongue so well, and now you're struck dumb? Answer me, Lucien Gwinter. An innocent person has nothing to hide.”
Swallowing dry felt like choking down a stone. I barely managed to part my lips.
Clicking his tongue in contempt at my subdued voice, Peterson lunged forward and seized a fistful of my hair.
“Ugh!”
He yanked so hard my neck snapped back in pain. Thrusting his face forward, stripped bare of any smile, Peterson spoke in a low rasp.
At the sharp sound of a snap, my gaze dropped. In Peterson's hand gleamed a long, slender blade.
The blade was far from clean. The dark, crusty stains seeped into the hilt looked as if they were screaming.
