I hate loud clocks, low ceilings, and Iza's uncle and his cramped office. After freezing me in place downstairs, Draven dragged me up here, just to prolong the conversation. The narrow room smells like leather and spilled whiskey, the air heavy with dust.
At least I still have another glass of blue nectar.
I sip it slowly, trying to calm my nerves, hugging my bag tighter to my chest. I hear muffled voices beyond the door, whispers of people waiting to see how this plays out. The office sits on the second floor, right next to the staircase. If I need to escape, I could run through the thugs and thousands of mutated minds or I could just jump out of that narrow window.
Leonhart vanished the moment I took my eyes away from him. I'm not expecting him to play knight, but having a known hand chopper around would be better than an uncle with bad debt.
According to what Iza said, she doesn't really know what happened. Sir Gillion told me that there was a wild search at that time for a little girl but they concluded that she was dead and stopped it. The irony is rich— turns out, that girl was Iza, leading me all the way down here on Xaden, the fool's mission.
The door bursts open, letting in the clamor of the bar below like a wave crashing against the rocks. And I nearly jump out of my skin. Draven pauses, eyes flickering to my face, catching my startled look. He raises his hands slowly, palms empty. "Easy now. I just want to talk," he says, his tone calm but with a rough edge.
I Force myself to relax, though my heart's racing. "Let me go. This whole thing is madness," I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. For once today, I'm honest. I still have a chance to get out of here unscathed.
I know I am dancing at the edge of the blade. Just let me trip and fall, my dear uncle. Make this easy.
"You can't be her," Draven mutters as he crosses to his battered desk, dropping heavily into a worn-out chair. The chandelier overhead casts flickering shadows across his face, making him look older, and wearier. "I saw her body. I buried her with my own hands." There's a crack in his voice, something I wasn't expecting—grief, perhaps, or maybe just guilt.
I keep my expression neutral, but inside, my mind is racing.
"The body had the beauty mark..." he says, voice faltering. "I was sure..."
I stare at him. Taking a slow breath, I wipe my cheek under my left eye, the powdered disguise smearing away to reveal two black marks beneath my lashes.
Draven's eyes widen and he gets up.
There's a reason my Iza is my body double, not a random whore in the streets. She has one beauty mark while I have two. "You..." My voice is hoarser than I expected. "You still have that silver pistol engraved with Elarion script in your left drawer. You whipped me for touching it. I still have the scars."
He staggers around the desk, falling to his knees before me. His hands, large and calloused, clutch mine, trembling like a leaf in the wind. "I... I'm sorry," he chokes out, tears spilling down his grizzled cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry."
For a moment, I'm frozen. My heart slams against my ribcage. Draven, this monstrous brute, is weeping at my feet. I've seen men break before, but not like this. Xavier, the crybaby is the worst I have faced so far. Not a man who commands fear like the devil himself.
Iza deserves this apology. If I were really her, I might find it in my heart to forgive him. But the real Iza... she's made of darker stuff. She's another kind of demon.
I stay silent, letting him sob until the chaos outside the door dies down. Jay must have called others to eavesdrop; the undercity thrives on drama. Finally, when the room falls quiet, Draven lifts his tear-streaked face.
"What must I do for your forgiveness?" he pleads. I pull my hands free, slick with his tears.
"I don't know," I murmur, wiping my face. "You tell me."
"Iza, please..."
"It's Mel now," I say firmly, clutching my bag. "You won't sell me again, will you?"
He shakes his head violently, as if the thought physically hurts him. "Never! I was... I was never going to—"
"I don't want to hear it." My voice cracks as I cut him off. "It won't change anything, will it?"
He slumps back into the chair, rubbing his eyes with rough hands. For a moment, he looks every bit as tired as I feel. "I need to know... what happened. Can you tell me?"
I draw a shaky breath, stepping into the lie like it's a pair of well-worn boots. "I escaped before the explosion," I begin, spinning the story of how the Baroness—my so-called mistress—took me in, only to torture me. How she planned to sell me off, and how I fled, pursued by knights.
It's a carefully constructed tale, but my stomach twists as I tell it. By the time I finish, the room feels thick with tension. Draven watches me, his hands pressed together, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on mine.
"You shouldn't forgive me," he says softly, breaking the silence. "I don't deserve it."
"I wasn't planning to," I reply, just as softly.
He sniffs, a broken laugh escaping him. "Thank the stars... You don't have anything from that bastard of a father." He stands suddenly, his expression shifting, hardening. "I can arrange a safe place for you in Crossreach—"
"I'd rather throw myself into the waters!" I snap, tears welling up in my eyes. "I'm not going back. I've already seen more filth than this place could ever throw at me. At least here, the filth doesn't pretend to shine."
"You can't threaten me with your life, child!" he roars, slamming his fist onto the desk.
"Oh, I can," I hiss back. "So what will it be?"
He falters, visibly shaken. "I can't... I won't let you—"
"Fine," I say, exhaustion creeping into my voice. "I'll work here. In the bar, wherever you need me. I can read and write. I learned more than just surviving."
"This is Solisra," he growls. "We don't need quills, only blades."
"Please," I whisper, letting tears fall freely now. "I don't want to die."
Draven's shoulders slump. Before he can respond, the door creaks open.