Chapter 8 · The Dead-End Gambit

“Don’t even think about screaming. It’ll only make the blade slip.”

His hand clamped over my mouth, smelling of old leather and stale tobacco. I couldn't move. My cheek was pressed against the damp stone of the servant’s corridor, and the edge of a jagged dagger was digging a shallow trench into my throat.

I could hear them. Three of them. Their breathing was heavy, synchronized, hungry.

“Augustus wants her quiet,” the second one grunted. “No scene. Just a clean cut, dump her in the cistern, and we’re done.”

I stopped fighting. I went limp. The second the resistance vanished, the grip on my mouth loosened just a fraction. I didn't pull away. I let my breath go shallow, jagged—mimicking a panic attack.

“Please,” I whispered against his palm. “I can... I can give you more. Augustus is lying to you.”

“Shut it, princess,” the one with the knife snapped. He pressed the steel harder. I felt the skin break. “You’re a dead girl walking. The only thing you’re giving us is a paycheck.”

I shifted my weight, feeling the grit of the floor against my shoulder. My frequency hacks were fried after the ball—