René was so rarely surprised by other people; when he was knocked back onto his heels he had no idea how to proceed. Eve filed that away. God only knew if she would ever be able to use it against him, but she still filed it away.
“I could kill you,” he said at last, “but I’d rather drain you of information. If I can give the Germans the network of agents that has done so much damage in this area, they will be exceedingly grateful. Because as it stands, they don’t have the evidence to sentence the two women they are holding to death.”
Eve filed that away too.
René smiled, fingers tapping Baudelaire’s marble head, and she couldn’t help the ice-cold shiver that flashed through her body, everywhere except her destroyed hand. “So—who was the woman, Eve?”
“She’s no one.”
“Liar.”
“Yes,” Eve spat. “I’m a liar and you kn-know it, and you won’t trust anything out of my mouth. You have no idea how to c-conduct this interrogation. This isn’t about getting information from me; this is about you being outsmarted. You’re destroying me because I was cleverer than you.”
He stared at her, mouth tight, two spots of color gleaming high in his cheeks. “You are just a lying bitch.”
“Here’s something you can believe.” Eve leaned forward over her own mangled hand. “Every moan I ever made in your bed was faked.”
He brought the bust down. The first knuckle in her right thumb shattered and Eve couldn’t catch the scream in her teeth this time. Even as she screamed, she wondered if the neighbors would hear through the windows, the muffling brocade drapes, the thick walls. No one can help you, even if they hear. The darkened city outside might as well be on the other side of the world. Let me faint, Eve prayed, let me faint—but René picked up the glass of water at his elbow and tossed it in her face, and the world cleared with a jolt.
“Were you aiming from the start to seduce me?” His voice was tight.
“You walked yourself into that trap, you g-gutless French pansy.” Eve managed a cough of a laugh, water sliding down her chin. “I was glad you did, though. The way you spilled your g-guts over a pillow, it was worth the four minutes of panting and moaning first—”
She had only three knuckles still whole on her right hand, and René broke them all in a flurry of now-expert blows. Eve shrieked. A sharp stench rose into the air of the rich study. Dimly, through the agony, she realized she had soiled herself. Urine and worse ran down the butter-soft leather of René’s expensive armchair to the Aubusson carpet below, and even through the torture engulfing her hand, she was ground down by a bone-deep wave of shame.
“What a dirty slut you are,” he said. “No wonder I insisted you take a bath before I ever fucked you.”
Another wash of shame, but the fear was stronger. She was more terrified than she even knew was possible. Trapped—the word kept running through her brain like a mouse skittering before a stalking cat. Trapped—trapped. No one was coming to help her. She was very possibly going to die here, the moment he tired of giving her pain and decided it was less trouble to shoot her than to turn her in. Her mouth was so dry with terror, it felt like gravel.
“That’s one hand,” René said casually, setting down the bust. His eyes glittered, perhaps with arousal, perhaps with his own brand of shame—the shame of being made a dupe. Either way, there were no more flinches or flared nostrils for the mess of the scene, the blood, the sounds and smells. “You still have your left hand, and that’s enough to get along. I’ll spare the rest of your fingers if you start talking. Tell me who the woman arrested at the station is. Tell me who ran the network. Tell me why you returned to Lille when you had already escaped to Tournai.”
Verdun, Eve thought. At least the message got out. She had to hope it would be worth it, that the message for which she and Lili were captured would save lives.
“Tell me those things, and I will bandage your hand, give you laudanum for the pain, and take you to the Germans. I’ll even request a surgeon to set your fingers.” René reached out, stroking the side of her face. The path of his fingertips carried its own agony, a