Page 35 of The Crowned Fae Queen
“My King, my love, sweet Iri.” She reaches for his boots, and all I can think about is how if she pet-names him one more time, I’m going to drown her lungs slowly with tiny rain drops. “Please, I can explain everything,” she carries on. “We can make this right. We can make us right.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I gape at my husband. Anger rallies within me. My hands quake with the urge to hit her. Instead, I slowly lower myself to her. “I’ll be goddessdamned if you’re going to talk to my husband that way.”
“She’s delirious.” Iri crinkles his nose. “And she smells awful.”
“Husband?” she sputters. Her perfect lips are chapped and dry as she opens them to continue wailing, but I don’t let her. I won't let her get another word out of her mouth unless it’s to tell me how she’s still poisoning them.
Iri slips his hands into his pockets and follows us. A lazy frown and lifted eyebrows make him look uncaring and bored.
Every step we take, Aisha tries to turn her face toward Iri. One quick jerk of my hand gives her cause to yelp and face forward. Only this lunatic would have time to make googly eyes at my husband while she is being dragged away to the dungeons.
The door knob squeaks as I turn it, and with the help of a swift push of my foot, the door swings open. Stairs lead down into the dimly lit space. Perhaps this would all be easier if I tossed Aisha down them.
No, not yet.
“Walk.” I push her forward.
Aisha grimaces, her dirty hands lifting the tattered edge of her gown up off the stairway. Each step is slow, possibly an attempt to delay the inevitable or to gather her thoughts.
At the bottom of the steps, I can see the empty cell where the assassin had been. I hope she’s getting her fill of real food and not dead with her head on a pike. I glance at Iri, hoping to get an answer, but his expression doesn’t change, and his thoughts remain focused on the present.
“The next cell over has a table. Chains are attached to the chair.” He points.
“Go.” I push Aisha, already reaching for the chains to bind her hands. “I would assume you’re perfectly capable of chaining yourself, but seeing as I can’t trust you, I'll do the honors.”
“Oh, I bet you’re loving this,” Aisha hisses through clenched teeth. “How many nights have you dreamed about placing my wrists in cuffs? I wish I could have given you many more of those nights, seeing as you never could find me. Do you know how crazy you looked clambering into those trees?” She leans her head back against the tall back of the metal chair and laughs. “I had to come to you for this to even happen.” She holds the wrist I just cuffed.
“Yes, seeking asylum, I hear. How did you like coming back to find that your assassins didn’t get the job done?” I tighten her restraints until she winces.
“So, we are blaming me for those assassins now, are we? You don’t think anyone else has a problem with you? The perfect princess, aren’t we?”
“That’s enough,” Iri growls.
Aisha blinks hard, her gaze trained on Iri. He breaks eye contact before she does. Her greedy attention trails down his body. So I step between them, forcing her attention to fall back on me.
“The rolls are reversed now, Aisha. I need some answers.”
“Pfft.” She blows out a long breath that makes her hair flutter in her own breeze.
“How are you spreading the poison?” Placing both hands on the table, I lean as near as I dare.
Aisha smiles. Her pretty little could-slap-it-right-off-her-fucking-face smile.
“Who are you working with? Where are you getting the ingredients?”
An odd twitch passes over Aisha as she squints her eyes shut tight. When she re-opens them, she wrinkles her nose.
“This interrogation is going so very well.” Her hoity laugh fills the small space between us.
“I don’t need your commentary. I need your answers. Real ones, honest ones.” I don’t bother to protect my dress from the old blood and shallow puddles this time as I turn. Each step is loud as my heels tap against the old stone floors.
Outside the cells, along the wall, is an assortment of weapons or what we would also call torture toys. Metals twisted, curved, and sharpened at all angles shine as they hang off their hooks. A host of small knives are slid into a row of pockets neatly tucked away under something that makes my teeth hurt just to look at.
My fingers wrap around the leather hilt of a short but wide knife. I ignore the way my fingers stick to the clearly unwashed handle. Sunlight filters through the small windows in the cells. The pointed edge of the weapon gleams nicely.
I pass the blade between my hands, twisting and turning it. At what angle should I plunge the weapon into her flesh? Which hand would be better?
Aisha’s red-rimmed eyes don’t widen when she sees me approach. Yet, her shoulders shudder like a cowering animal.
