Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(93)

Roman yanked free, but his father’s terror was contagious. He could feel it tickle the back of his throat. “I can’t hide here. It’s too late for that.”

“Do as I tell you, son. I won’t lose you to this.” Mr. Kitt strode from the study, shutting the doors in his wake and leaving Roman behind in a smoky, oppressive room.

He breathed through his mouth, but he didn’t move. He stood in the center of the chamber, listening …

“My lord!” his father exclaimed. “What has happened?”

An uncomfortable pause. But when Dacre spoke at last, the house seemed to magnify his voice.

“I want all my officers and soldiers who remained behind to line up in the hall. Now.”

Roman could hear the sudden rush of bootsteps as Dacre’s order was heeded. One of those officers would be Lieutenant Shane, who held Roman’s confession like a grenade. Lieutenant Shane, who no doubt believed he’d been betrayed, since Dacre’s head was still fastened to his body.

Roman bared his teeth, heart thrashing. But he hurried to his father’s desk, stifling a cough as he struck a match. Quickly, he pulled the incriminating letter from his pocket, and he held it by the corner as it caught fire.

He watched the paper curl into smoke before he dropped the last of it on the rug, stamping out the hungry flames. His head continued to ache, but he took the time to set the blackened match in the ashtray, lined up with all the others his father had used.

Only then did he leave the study and step out into the hall.

Breathe, slow and deep.

The soldiers and officers were in the corridor, lined up and standing at attention. Their focus was set firmly ahead, even as Dacre walked before them, his eyes scrutinizing each of their faces as he passed.

Roman stopped. He could only see Dacre’s back, but the god’s clothes were ripped and bloodied. His long blond hair was tangled.

“Someone here has betrayed me,” said Dacre. His voice was smooth, thick, like oil on water. “This is your chance to come forward and confess.”

No one moved or spoke.

Roman found Lieutenant Shane in the lineup. By all appearances, Shane was perfect. His face was well guarded, his uniform was pristine as if he took great pride in it. He didn’t quake in fear or take shallow breaths. He seemed completely in control, as if the idea of betrayal had never crossed his mind.

“You,” Dacre said, pointing to one of the privates. “Step forward and kneel.”

The soldier obeyed.

“Hold out your right arm.”

Again, the soldier did as Dacre commanded, although Roman could see the man’s hand was shaking.

“I will break your arm, unless you confess or give up the names of your comrades who have betrayed me,” Dacre said, taking hold of the soldier’s forearm.

“M-my lord commander,” the man stammered. “I truly don’t know. I’m wholly devoted to you.”

“I will give you one more chance to reply. Confess, or give me a name.”

The soldier was silent, but urine dampened the front of his trousers.

Roman had seen enough. He was full of quiet fury, and he was tired of bending to a god who thrived on mortals’ fear and subservience. Who took delight in making wounds and then healing them halfway when it suited him.

Roman resumed his walk down the hall. But his hand drifted into his pocket; his finger traced the edge of Iris’s small book, which he had carried ever since she had left it in his room.

“Lord Commander?” he called.

Dacre’s head snapped up. His eyes gleamed as he took in Roman’s appearance, and Roman was suddenly thankful for the vomit and the blood on his clothes. The dirt and the wrinkles and the brambles. Simultaneously, he was shocked to see how unscathed Dacre was. The blood that marred his raiment was not his, as there was not a single scratch on his face or his hands.

“Roman,” Dacre said, releasing the private’s arm. “I thought you were dead.”

“No, sir.” Roman passed Shane. He could feel the cool gaze of the lieutenant, brief but chilling, as he came to a stop before Dacre.

“Why are you here?” the god asked. “How did you survive?”

“I was on the outer edges of the courtyard. When the blast happened … I didn’t know what to do, so I came home, knowing you would return here, sir.”

Dacre was silent, mulling over Roman’s reply.

In that strained moment of waiting to see how Dacre would respond, Roman realized that the other officers—Captain Landis included—and soldiers who had been with him in the Green Quarter must have died in the blast. It was their blood on the god’s face and clothes. And one of those men had been standing beside Iris.

Roman felt a prick of grief. His distress began to devour his bones, making him quiver from the weight. He almost bowed over. He almost melted to the floor.

Hold it together.

He repeated those words, a framework on which to hang his mind and his body, and bit the inside of his cheek. He laced his fingers behind his back. But there was a scream building in his chest, tearing through his lungs.

If she were dead, I would know.

“Hold out your right arm, Roman,” said Dacre.

If this was a test, then Roman couldn’t afford to fail it. And if it wasn’t, then Roman would know true breaking at the hands of a god.