Claimed by the Twin Kings

The Cold Audit

It was like a funeral march to the dining hall. The handle of the knife that Kael had buried in the creases of her slit dress was shaken by the hand of Elara. Damian did not look back; his walk was steady and confident, demanding compliance. The only means of escape was to pass the precipice Kael had just skywalked.

They had gone into a room which was the opposite of the rich boudoir that she had awakened in. They were enclosed in a cave of black marble and glass. A single long table, which was to be occupied by two persons, was in the middle. There was no dense quiet to be found here, but sterile.

Sit, Damian pointed to his right-hand chair.

Elara settled into the seat. The knife was still under the tablecloth in her lap.

Damian sat down at the top of the table with neither a ringing bell nor a clap. A waiter came into the shadows, set a silver-domed platter in front of her, and disappeared without leaving the slightest trace of himself.

Damian lifted the lid.

The plate had a rare steak, which was still bleeding.

"Eat," he commanded. He stared at her with pale blue eyes that cut up her face. "You’ll need your strength."

I am not hungry, she said, which was a repetition of her previous disobedience.

Damian gulped his wine and looked at her hand, the hand Kael had kissed, with dried red upon it. Kael leaves a mess wherever he goes, he said, motionlessly. "Did he give you the knife?"

Elara stiffened. "I found it."

A lie, he said, and clinked his glass. "You’re a terrible liar, Elara. It is cute, though it will cost you your life in this house. He put up his own fork and sliced his meat with clean movements. We must talk about your father, such as the ledgers.

The topic shift was jarring. "My father is dead."

Dead men tell stories, though somebody knows how to read their paperwork, it was the saying of Damian, who leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "The Bratva wants the books. Your father stole three million dollars from the joint operation and concealed the money. I know he didn’t spend it. Where are the ledgers?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me again." He made no noise, but the room appeared to grow cold.

" I do not know, I do not know, I do not know, I do not know, she sputtered. "He never told me anything. He was merely my father, not my fiancée.

It was a long agonizing minute before Damian stood and stared at her. He would move around the table and stand just behind her.

Elara froze. She tightened her grip on the knife; her knuckles became white. She would swing in case he touched her.

He did not touch her shoulder or her hair, but the hand had gone to her throat.

His fingers were long, cold, and inconceivably strong. He did not strangle her, just so that she would experience the amount of control he had over her life. He stayed there, one second too long, and felt her heart beat against his flesh.

"Do you feel that?" he said, and his breath came hot to her ear. "That fear is leverage. Your father loved you. And in case he covered the money, he covered it for you. Think."

Elara’s breath stopped. The room spun. The buildup in her neck was so great that she felt dizzy.

"I… I don’t…" she gasped.

The side of her neck was stroked with the thumb of the person who was terrifying to be a lover, Damian. Zurich has a safety deposit box. We found the key in his pocket. But we need the code. You were his favorite. He would not go away without notifying you.

He released her abruptly.

Elara bent forward, breathing deeply, and scratching the back of her neck. The skin was tender and sore.

I really will give you a chance to remember tonight, Damian said as he strolled back to his seat as though nothing had occurred. I believe I will have the code tomorrow morning. If I don’t get it..."

It was an unfinished sentence, but it was understandable. Again, he cut into his steak, the blood streaming on the plate.

"Eat," he repeated.

With hatred in her eyes, Elara turned to him. She picked her fork up on a trembling hand and resolved to play at his game, so that she might obtain an opportunity of getting within striking distance of him with the knife on her lap.

She took a bite of the meat. It tasted like iron.

And Damian smiled, with a cold, thin set of lips. "Good girl."

They all ate quietly, with the sole sound being the clashing of knives and forks. It is a battle of wit that was fought over rare beef and red wine.

Damian stood up when the plates were cleared. "I have business in the city. You shall stay down here, under guard.

He came up to the door, hesitated, and looked back at her. His eyes strayed to the balcony doors, which were still open since Kael got out.

"Close the balcony," he said. The wolves wailing tonight.

He left.

Alone in the huge room sat Elara. The silence was oppressive and stifling. She time-told until she felt that he had left.

The lady reclined her chair and sat up. She went out to the doors of the balcony to shut them as she had been told.

She went out onto the landing of the stone. The wind was fierce and tore her dress. She gazed downwards at the rocks.

Then she saw it.

A strip of red cloth hung from the railing and was fluttering in the gale. It was as though it were cut out of a shirt.

Elara reached a hand to seize it, but as the fingers touched the fabric, she stopped.

There was a message underneath the red cloth carved in scribbled, dashing letters in the stone railing. It was sloppy and desperate handwriting.

It has not been a proclamation of love. It was not a threat.

It was a number.

4-4-2.

Elara looked at it, with breath suspended. Was it a code? Was it a date?

She looked about and saw the dark room, and saw where Kael had disappeared.

There was a great bang inside the door was banged.

Elara spun around. The lock was engaged.

She was locked out and was standing upon the ledge.

At the shadow side of the glass, a figure came forward. Neither was it Damian nor Kael.

He was wearing a mask and had a silenced pistol which he pointed at her heart.