Page 38 of Silvercloak

The thought of sweet Papa Marriosan tortured because of her …

He was old. The pain would likely kill him.

Auria would never recover, and she would certainly never forgive Saffron.

“In any case, we don’t need Killoran.”Lyrian climbed to his feet, crossing around to where she stood in front of his desk. He lifted his wand and pressed it in the soft hollow beneath her chin, jerking her face up to the chandelier light. “Didn’t your time in the gamehouse teach you anything about showing your cards too soon?”

Saff struggled to swallow against the jutting wand.

Had he been watching her the whole time?

As if to answer her question, he let out a cold, rattling laugh. “Each of the roulette balls act as second eyes for me. I seeeverything,Filthcloak. I knoweverything.” A cruel grin. “Sen doloran.”

The torture curse.

It had no effect, of course, but Saffron was used to pretending.

She let out a strangled, half-suppressed scream, her limbs trembling, her eyes beading with tears.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Lyrian murmured, and there was a look of sadistic pleasure on his face, as though seeing victims squirm was immensely erotic. “I’ll stop when you beg me to do so.”

“No,” Saff all but spat. “Never.”

For some reason, her refusal triggered a curious reaction in the kingpin. In an instant he dropped the wand to his waist and gave a sordid head shake, as though disappointed in himself for resorting to such crude measures.

Saff let out a breath of false relief, though she kept the trembling for effect.

“Pain has never been all that satisfying to me.” His voice was quiet, sinister. “Fear is a more sophisticated beast, is it not? Pain stops when the spell stops, but fear … it burrows, it grows roots, it takes on a life of its own long after I have sown its seed. To wield fear is to wieldthe greatest power of all.” A dismissive hand wave. “I have magic, of course, but my most valuable gift is my memory. Because you know, Filthcloak, I never forget a face. I never forget a name. Every person in this city is mapped out in my head. Every strand of love and kinship between them shimmers before me, begging to be plucked. The most efficient means of compelling, other than compelling itself, is to tug those threads until theyhurt.”

Saff said nothing, and he paced in front of the fire, his steps neither frantic nor impulsive, but rather slow, deliberate, quietly intimidating.

“Your uncles, Mal and Merin. Cloakiers, and fine ones at that. We’ve used them ourselves to purchase common cloaks, for when we wish to move through the city unmarked.”

He gave a broad, cold smile.

“How kind of them to take you in, after we killed your parents in Lunes all those years ago.”

SAFFRON HADN’T EVEN HAD THECHANCETO KEEP HER PASTa secret.

She had prepared for this for two decades. She had studied and practiced and patrolled and studied some more, grown skin thicker than dragonhide and instincts sharper than wolf claws, learned everything she could about the Bloodmoons’ operation, cooked up half-baked plans for exiling her uncles from the city if things went south, and none of it mattered.

She was stilllosing.

That was the true horror of Lyrian Celadon.

It didn’t matter what you did—he was always several steps ahead.

Not for the first time in her life, words failed her entirely.

“So my question is twofold.” The kingpin stopped and turned on his polished heel. “Firstly, why would the daughter of two of our most unfortunate victims willingly walk into our gamehouse in the first place? And secondly, does it matter? Because once you’re branded, there will be no way for you to betray us without immediate and agonizing death.” Lyrian shrugged impassively. “And so it doesn’t matter if your motivations are not what you claim. We’ll be able to control you regardless, fit you with a tight collar and a tighter leash, walk you downthe streets of Atherin like a dog, should we so please. And if you resist our orders, I know exactly who to hurt. Auria Marriosan, Tiernan Flane, Nissa Naszi. Your dear uncles. The moment you stepped foot in that gamehouse, you brought all of them with you.”

Terror tied a noose around Saffron’s throat.

She’d been too brazen about this assignment, comforted by the knowledge that she was immune to the brand, to magical torture, and to truth elixir. But the same could not be said for her loved ones. She’d known from the beginning that she’d be dragging them into this perilous snarl of conflict—she knew enough about how the Bloodmoons operated to predict as much—but she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. She hadn’t counted on the kingpin’s terrifying memory, the way his cruel hands hovered over the city, tugging at the strings below.

Determined not to show Lyrian that he’d rattled her, she forced her chin high.

“If it doesn’tmatter,cut the prattling preamble. Brand me.”