Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Even knowing it was coming, it was still a shock to be by Antonin’s side for hours. She’d planned. She’d agonized. She’d practiced what she’d say and how she’d act.

None of it prepared her for the way being friendly with the man tore her in two.

Petra existed outside of her body as she gave the Protector his tour through the facilities. They chatted amiably, even flirtatiously, as if some foreign being inhabited her body while the real Petra huddled in the back of her mind, screaming into her palms.

The only thing the being in control of her couldn’t handle was his touch. Antonin seemed to take every excuse to lay his hands on her, though it was carefully calculated to never cross any polite boundaries — just push them. She thanked the gods for her staff, who despite their anxiety seemed grimly intent on having at least one person with them at all times. Petra wasn’t sure what he’d do without an audience, or even if said audience was a true deterrent for a man like him, but she was fiercely grateful for her staff all the same.

Unfortunately, it was imperative that he not suspect anything, so Petra was forced to endure most of it, though she did manage to slip away once or twice under the guise of coy flirtation.

The minutes dragged as she danced on the edge of a knife. Adrenaline was a constant hum in her blood. Fight or flight instincts battled with her need for calm, with the masks she’d worn for so long. As dinner approached, Petra would have done just about anything to be able to run screaming from his side, but there was no reprieve, no escape, and certainly no chance for her to look into his eyes and demand answers he’d never give her.

When it became too much, Petra imagined Silas. She pictured him skulking around the cathedral, those molten eyes gleaming in the dark. She imagined his cold, dangerous smile as he slipped into Antonin’s suite and rifled through his things as he’d so gleefully done to her.

She pictured him there, standing just behind her, keeping her safe even as she stood in the path of disaster.

Their tour ended at the door to Antonin’s suite. Two guards flanked it. They were joined by the two who’d trailed the Protector throughout the tour. All of them wore the same blank expression and not once did they speak a word.

Standing between his guards, Antonin lifted her right hand to his lips for a lingering kiss to her knuckles. Her skin crawled.

He didn’t lower her hand right away, but rather rubbed his thumb over the tops of her fingers. “Not even one ring? You wear a shocking lack of jewelry, my dear.”

His tone made it impossible for her to decipher whether that was a rebuke or not, so Petra settled on a neutral answer. “I prefer to keep attention on Glory, not my body.”

Antonin tsked. “There’s no way to outshine the goddess of the sun. Gilding yourself in jewelry that reflects her light is an act of worship and a sign of your station.” He gave her fingers a quick, slightly too-tight squeeze and met her eyes over the ridge line of her knuckles. “I’ll have pieces shipped here for you. You should always sparkle, my dear, particularly when you stand beside me.”

She knew he assumed what her answer to his proposition would be. No one would be stupid enough to turn a bond with him down, after all. But it was deeply jarring to hear his confidence aloud.

Worried her hand would begin to shake, Petra gently extracted it from his own. She covered the tactical retreat with a featherlight touch to his arm. Disgust scalded her when he gave her a heavy-lidded look of approval.

She was rapidly losing her ability to pretend, so Petra pitched her voice low and hoped it came out as a private whisper rather than a croak when she said, “Thank you, Antonin. You’re too generous with me.”

“For Glory’s rising star? My dear, you deserve far more than gold.” His smile was sharp under the perfect curl of his gray-streaked mustache. “But we’ll discuss that over dinner.”

“Of course. We’ll be taking our meal in the belltower, since it has the best view of the city.” It was also the most remote part of the cathedral, which would hopefully give Silas plenty of time and space to do what he’d promised.

Antonin arched a brow. The look was teasing, but too practiced to come off as anything other than predatory. “Not your suite?”

Gods, no. The thought of inviting that man into her private space, even knowing it had been invaded by him already, made her gorge rise.

Summoning a slight, private smile, she replied, “My suite is in the heart of the staff living quarters. I believed you’d prefer more privacy than that.”

Antonin shot her a cheeky wink. “Clever girl.”

Truly unable to stomach more, Petra accepted his praise with a nod and turned to go. She hadn’t made it more than a handful of steps before his voice stopped her.

“Petra?”

She turned her head, but couldn’t make her body face him. “Yes?”

His eyes were dark when he commanded her, “Wear something beautiful. It’s an important night. I want to make it special.”

Bile really did threaten to make its appearance then. Petra swallowed a mouthful of excess saliva before answering. “Of course. It will be… very special. I can’t wait.”

It was with a shocking splash of bitter disappointment that Petra discovered her room was empty.

Silas, where are you?

Surely it was a good sign that he’d made himself scarce, but she’d gotten used to having him in her space. It was unsettling to get ready without the weight of his attention on her at all times. She’d somehow even gotten used to the feeling of his shadows writhing around her legs like seeking hands.

It was disorienting to find herself suddenly unscrutinized as she pulled her white cocktail dress out of her closet and slipped it on. A part of her desperately wanted to take a second to breathe, maybe even sit on the edge of her bed and stare into the middle distance for a while, but she worried that if she gave in to the impulse, she wouldn’t be able to force herself back out the door.

The secret passageway hidden in the back of her closet taunted her.

You could run, it said. Max wouldn’t blame you. He’d tell you to save yourself, that this isn’t worth it. He’d want you to live.

But the fact that Max wasn’t there to tell her that himself was the whole reason she’d gotten into this mess. And every time she thought of simply slipping into the night and disappearing with all the money he’d set aside just for this situation, she remembered the shaky way he sounded when he confided his suspicions that something horrible was about to happen.

The scared little girl in her, beaten, starved, and feral, hissed from the safety of her hiding place in Petra’s mind, I’m going to finish what you started, dyadya Matvei.

So she didn’t take whatever chance remained to escape her fate. Instead, she did as so many women in her place had done before: she got ready for her date.

She curled her hair. She washed her face. She carefully applied her makeup — neither too much nor too little. She slipped her feet into red heels, the toes sharp points tipped with gold, and said a short prayer for her feet on the one hundred and fifty steps they would climb up to the belltower.

When there was no part of her left to primp, prune, or decorate, Petra stared at her reflection for several seconds. An unknown woman stared back at her.

“For Matvei,” she mouthed. Even then, when he was nothing but dust and crushed bone, she couldn’t bring herself to betray him by speaking his real name aloud. Petra had always been fiercely loyal. That intensity had nowhere to go now, but…

She swallowed hard as she curled her fingers around the gold charm Silas had crafted for her. The back of her nose stung with unshed tears. A deep pang of grief struck her — not for her uncle, but for the fact that she hadn’t gotten to see Silas’s violent smile, those molten eyes, or that stupid little beauty mark above his lip one last time.

There’s no loyalty between us, but there’s trust. Just enough.

Petra turned away from the mirror. Her heels clicked on the old wooden floor as she made her way back to her closet for a light coat. Summer nights were always unpredictable in San Francisco, and she didn’t want to die shivering in the wind.

Swinging the closet door open, she stepped inside to grab her favorite white coat off its hanger. Her fingers had just closed around the soft wool collar when the light vanished.

Shock held her there for the span of heartbeat, but she didn’t get the chance to recover, let alone fight. Without warning, the darkness yanked her forward, squashing her into the clothing with a rattle of hangers. Petra squawked, her body instinctively thrashing to throw off an assailant that didn’t truly exist.

“Sil—” His name was cut off by a clinging film of shadows covering her mouth. Behind her, the closet door swung shut. Petra screamed into the dark, but the sound was trapped in her throat.

No! She tried to struggle, to fight like a fox caught in a snare, but it was no use. The shadows were everywhere. They were gentle, gentler than she remembered Silas’s ever being before, but they didn’t give her an inch.

The musty smell of the closet, the texture of her coat pressed against her cheek, the way the darkness seemed to be petting her hair— Petra wanted to throw back her head and howl in outrage.

She knew it’d been too easy. She knew he’d been too accommodating.

Something had seemed off about his easy acceptance of her plan to have dinner with Antonin, but she’d ignored it because there was no other choice. Now she saw how stupid that was.

She’d underestimated Silas. Again.

Gods knew what he planned now that she was stowed away like old camping equipment. A garbled sound of pure outrage escaped her throat. I’m going to fucking kill him!

But that could only happen if she found a way to escape. Most likely he’d come back for her, but she didn’t have time to hope for that. She needed to get out of the closet, climb one hundred and fifty stairs, distract Antonin, and then murder Silas with her bare hands.

Fury was a roaring fire in her chest. Her breaths quickened, her lungs like twin bellows fanning the flames.

“I have my own plan,” he’d said.

Petra bared her teeth against the shadows covering her mouth. Her skin burned hot, her magic bubbling up to the surface like an upswell of magma. The shadows around her stilled, then began to move in earnest, pressing down on her as if they could stop the white-hot glow of magic from bursting from her pores.

They couldn’t.

Shadows can’t hold me, motherfucker. Not unless I let them.