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No way would I reveal my foresight, whatever it was. So I shrugged. “A blind person couldn’t miss your narcissist Hitler wannabe act.”

The back of his hand slammed into my mouth. Ow, fuck. Real smart. I kept my arms at my sides, face blank, refused to reveal the pain rattling my teeth.

“You will heed the glorious words in Sura 33:59.” The black of his eyes, so dense and endless, gripped me in a gravitational pull. “’Tell your wives, your daughters, and the wives of the believers that they should lengthen upon themselves their outer garments.’ You will obey.”

Not fucking likely. I blinked, broke the influence of his stare. Then I wadded up the oppressive garments and chucked them. Cloth billowed around the bars.

Ready that time, I assumed a battle bearing. Raised chin, shoulders back, planted feet, and a do-your-worst glare.

“Blood runs from multiple wounds and still you challenge me?”

I’d prepared for a punch. Not the purr in his voice and the curious glint in his eyes.

He pivoted toward his brother with unwavering equilibrium, as if his feet didn’t touch the floor. “When Father Molony arrives, bring him to the hall. Eveline will receive her first lesson in respect.”

The spike of my pulse sent me hurtling after him. I smacked into a brick body. Lifted my chin. Followed the peaks and dips of the doctor’s chest. Longed for my daggers. When I reached his black eyes, his head shook once.

Over the doctor’s shoulder, the Drone’s glare exuded a chill I felt in my bones. “I will not deign to your indignities. Remember this. The more you fight me, the sweeter your submission will be.” A pink tongue wormed over his teeth. “I can taste it already.”

The door closed, leaving me alone with the doctor. He gathered the swaths of cloth and shoved them to my chest. “Pick your battles, Nannakola.”

I shouldered away from him and those damned garments. “Why do you call me that?”

He spread them out on the bed. “I’ll tell you if you tell me about the scar.”

“Free the priest and I’ll tell you anything you want.”

“Get dressed. The Drone will be waiting.”

Crescents bloomed on my palms. My nails dug deeper. I forced images of Roark bloodied in chains to hold myself back from smiting the doctor with every dirty fighting technique I knew. A whirlwind of hate crashed through me and poured from my mouth. “I’ll pick my battle, you son of a bitch. And when I do, it’ll end with your blood on my hands.”

All I got was a twitch in his jaw. Then he turned on his heels and locked the cell behind him, keeping his back to me. I let my blood-soaked gown drop to the floor and wished I felt as confident as I sounded.

Across the table, the Drone and the Imago stared at me over plates of chick peas, curry, potatoes, and naan. I pushed into the back of the chair, seeking another millimeter of separation from their tainted airspace, and was certain the chair’s iron filigree would be stamped into my shoulder blades.

The hall’s arched doors yawned toward the blotted blues of the Mediterranean. A view I would’ve appreciated under other circumstances.

Salt and seaweed clung to the drafts left by the two human men, who served us with wide eyes and pinched lips. They hurried away as quick as they came, pitchers quivering in their fists. The tension was made worse by the huffing breaths and jerking torsos waving from the wall of aphid guards. The Imago’s dart gun couldn’t be the only thing preventing them from attacking. I was certain there was more to it.

The Drone tore a corner off the thin bread and dipped it in a bowl of soup thick with pulses of every color. Beside me, the doctor watched my finger move beans around my plate.

Sweat gathered under my head-to-toe scarves. The wound on my neck throbbed. Each minute dragged in anticipation of Roark’s arrival and the lesson that would follow.

I met the Drone’s glare with my own. “Why did you bite me?”

He tongued the corner of his mouth. “To taste your submission.” The wrinkle lines around his eyes didn’t move, but his pupils pulsed.

Fuck, he was sick, but he was hiding something. I sat a little taller. “Where are your wings?”

The Imago lost his grip on his glass, dumping its contents in his lap.

The Drone remained motionless, except for the slow climb of one brow over darkening eyes. “Wings?”

“To match your vampire fangs.” Pride swelled at the steadiness of my voice. Not a trace of fear despite the wild thumping in my chest. I tried to muster a smile to match but couldn’t get my mouth to work right.

He curled his lip, making a show of normal teeth, and reclined in his chair. “I am bored with these questions. Further utterances from that disrespectful mouth better offer a sapid discussion.”