As August lifted his gaze to Devereaux, I saw something besides fear lining his dark eyes. Something teetering on the edge of resentment. “Nothing, my lord,” August said.
I tried not to flinch at the deferential term.
Devereaux’s cold gaze lingered on August for another tense beat before he turned to me. “My dear Miss Farrow,” he began in a falsely courteous tone. The smile curving his lips did not reach his eyes. “I’m afraid our hospitality has been sorely lacking this evening. Won’t you have a glass of wine?”
To my surprise, Veronika leveled him with a sharp look. “Weshouldn’t waste it, Dev. We’ll need it in a few weeks.” She spoke the words coolly, but her eyes were full of hardened steel.
My gaze landed on Veronika, and I had the strangest sense that she was trying to protect me, too.
Devereaux gave her a wan smile. “We can always brew more. After all, we don’t want Arden to think we’ve forgotten our manners.”
“Yes, Veronique,” Evren replied. “Let the girl have a taste, at least. After all, it’s certainly better than the drivel they serve here.” He made a face at the murky coffee congealing in Devereaux’s cup.
The others at the table who had been watching mostly in silence began to snicker and whisper excitedly to one another. Again, August’s body went rigid beside me.
Still glaring daggers at Evren and Devereaux, Veronika reluctantly reached across the table to pour the contents of the cask into a small glass.
A sharp aroma hit my nostrils. The scent of leather and smoke, and something herbal lingered in my nose as I stared at the draught. Fear began lacing its way up my spine. There was no way in hell I was going to drink anything they offered me. At best, they sought to humiliate me for their own entertainment, and at worst, the wine was poisoned, and they wanted to watch me choke. It occurred to me then that poison might account for August’s sickly demeanor—though, I supposed, so would Evren’s proclivities for inflicting torture, or Devereaux’s skill with hypnosis—or whatever the hell he did.
“Drink,” Devereaux commanded, his tone no longer trilling with false gentility. “You don’t want us to think you’re rude.”
The other members of the Order simpered with gleeful anticipation as they watched me. I could feel August’s tenuous control over his anxiety deteriorating rapidly, and he began to tremble violently again.
“Am I supposed to believe this isn’t poisoned?” I said.
Devereaux arched his brows, as though insulted by my accusation. “We would never poison a guest at our table.”
The lie brushed across my lips like a plume of acid and I nearly gagged on the caustic taste of it. My fingers, still irrevocably intertwined with his, twitched. Fighting my disgust, I turned again to August, expecting to meet terror in his gaze, but instead, finding something more akin to rage. Whether it was fury on my behalf, or elsedirected toward me, I didn’t know. I didn’t have a moment to consider it.
As Devereaux pushed the glass closer to me, August shook his head almost imperceptibly. I didn’t need the ability to detect lies to know that anything that came out of Devereaux’s mouth could not be trusted. August’s gesture said all too clearly that whatever happened, I must not drink that wine.
But the earthy aroma of the wine was almost irresistible, and its intoxicating effects only grew more potent as I inhaled more deeply. The sweet, cloying draught beckoned me closer. I should just get up and leave—now, before anything else happens. To my increasing alarm, I found that my legs disobeyed my command to rise. I tried again.
Get up, Arden. Move!My legs did not budge.
Beads of sweat sprang up along my forehead and back, and my heart thundered against my ribs. What the hell is happening to me? I felt the nerves in my free hand begin to flex of their own volition, the urge to move my fingers suddenly too compelling to ignore, the scent of the wine too decadent to resist.Maybe just a taste.
Drink!A voice inside my head spoke.Pick up the cup and drink.
No!
At my refusal, the voice in my head growled menacingly, sinking its teeth into my mind, stabbing at my nerves like daggers. Without warning, my throat exploded into flames, burning with a thirst so unbearable I thought I might die. Mytongue was a thick, desiccated husk in my mouth. Again, the voice now clamored inside my head.
Drink. DRINK!
My desiccated tongue tormented me. Maybe just one sip… just enough to slake this desperate need, to alleviate the barren wasteland of my throat.
DRINK. NOW.
I wanted more than anything to obey. Torn between horror and desperate anticipation, I watched as my right hand moved of its own accord, curling my fingers around the circumference of the cup. No. This couldn’t be happening.
The cruel faces around the table laughed in a blur of lips and teeth, and Devereaux’s answering smile was a blood-red gash across his brutal features. Even as my mind consciously fought Devereaux’s influence, a part of me wanted to yield to his irresistible control. I dreaded what would happen once I drank the poison, but a stronger, more primal part of my mind welcomed the inevitable relief. Panic and desire clawed their way up my throat as I lifted the glass to my lips…
A hand darted through the air, knocking the glass from my hands. Red liquid splattered diagonally across the table and onto Zhara’s dress, the rest trickling onto the floor, pooling like blood.
August.
The faces around the table were no longer smiling as they turned their cold fury toward August. Between locks of dulled red hair, August’s expression warred between surprise and horror at what he’d done.