The Cogsmith's Daughter (Desertera #1)(85)

Emerging from the hidden tunnel behind the bookcase was a smug Lord Varick. And next to him, wearing a cog-embroidered top hat, stood Willem.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


If it were possible to die of shock, Aya’s heart would have stopped. Willem was the prince.

Willem, the man who had been her only friend in the palace, who had been her first enjoyable bedding, who had offered to help her escape from King Archon, was the same boy who had ordered her father’s execution. And now, he was working with Lord Varick to execute his own father and frame her.

How could she have been so stupid? Her entire time in the palace, Prince Lionel had been right in front of her—in her arms, maybe even in her heart. Had she really been so blinded by his wit and charm, so distracted by her own desire, so flattered by her first taste of true intimacy that she had overlooked all the clues staring her in the face? She had, and it was about to cost her her head.

Aya’s knees buckled, and she bent over, feeling as if she might be sick. The guards tugged on her arms, trying to coerce her into moving again. After a few deep breaths, Aya’s stomach settled, and she relented, rising to her feet, sluggishly sliding them across the marble floors. The guards led Aya to a staircase, slowly winding their way toward the bottom level of the palace, to the ship’s center. As Aya watched her feet plop onto each step, realizations popped into her mind—Abrim’s odd pronunciation of Willem’s name, the nobles’ stares at the ball, Lord Varick’s fit of hysterics after Aya danced with Willem.

Understanding the irony, Aya chuckled herself, and as her laughter grew louder and began to shake her stomach, she wondered if she hadn’t gone a little mad. The guards stopped walking, both of them staring down at her. The stronger one slapped Aya across the face, but when that did not stop her laughter, they simply shrugged and resumed their course.

As they reached the bottom floor of the palace, Aya caught her breath and let out a long sigh. Her cheek stung, but she ignored the pain, lifting her head to take in her surroundings. The corridors were narrow, lined with even narrower doorways, each one about two feet away from its neighbor. The doors consisted of metal, and they each had two small windows covered with iron bars, one near the top of the door and one near the bottom. Aya realized the guards had brought her to the dungeon.

At the end of the hallway sat another guard in a wooden rocking chair, sharpening a long knife. He did not even look up when the other guards entered with Aya. “Put her in thirty-seven.”

“Yes, sir,” the guards replied in unison.

They pulled Aya down the corridor to cell number thirty-seven. The key was waiting in the keyhole. They turned it and opened the door. The larger guard pushed Aya into the doorway, grabbing her hands and placing them on either side of the frame. He ran his hands over her arms and torso, taking his time inspecting her breasts. Bending down, he motioned for her to widen her feet. Aya closed her eyes and did as instructed, praying that his fingers would not brush the screwdriver. The guard lifted her feet from her shoes, glanced inside, then replaced them. His hands slid up her calves and around the backs of her thighs. Aya let out a breath, only to suck it back in as the guard’s hand pressed roughly between her legs, fortunately still on the outside of her dress.

“Nothing,” the guard grunted.

Before Aya could straighten herself, the guard pushed her into the cell. She stumbled forward, catching herself against the wall. The guards slammed the door closed behind her, and she heard the lock click into place. Aya stood up on her tiptoes to peer out the top window. From her cell, she could only see that the guards went in the direction of the guard on watch duty. They must have given him the key.

After a few moments, the guards walked past Aya’s cell, and she beat on the door. “Let me out! This is a mistake! I’m innocent!”

The guards did not even turn to look at her. They disappeared from her view.

Aya kept banging on the door and screaming for the guard on duty to let her out. With the large number of cells in the dungeon, Aya imagined that King Archon had to be among them and maybe other prisoners as well. If she kept hollering, kept fighting, kept up hope, maybe she could inspire them to rally with her. She tried—hitting the door and yelling until her hands became sore and her voice began to crack. “Please, let me out. I didn’t do anything.”

A hand reached between the bars and grabbed a hunk of Aya’s curls, slamming her head against the metal door. Aya whimpered, stretching to make herself taller so the pull on her scalp would not hurt as much.

“Quiet down now, you filthy whore. I ain’t havin’ no more of yer yelling.”

Aya twisted her neck as best she could to look at the guard. His hair and beard were so bushy that all she could make out was a pair of dark brown eyes and a bulbous nose. She was tempted to spit in his face, but she thought better of it. Apparently, no one else could hear her scream down here, and if they could, they were not at all inspired.

“Fine,” Aya said, willing to rest and regroup. “Let me go.”

The guard slipped his knife through the bars, sliced off a lock of Aya’s hair, then shoved her head away from the door. Aya stumbled to the floor of her cell, grasping her scalp with both hands as if the guard had ripped her hair out. The cell was about four feet by four feet, and she was lucky to be short enough that she could stretch her legs out comfortably.

The guard dangled her hair inside the window and sniffed it. “You smell pretty good for a whore. Might have to see what the rest of you smells like.”