Chapter 2 The Trap of Mercury Dice

# Chapter 2: The Trap of Mercury Dice

I awoke to sunlight streaming through velvet curtains I hadn't bothered to close the night before. For one blissful moment, I forgot where I was—then reality crashed down upon me. The mansion. The auction. Damien Blackwood.

My fingers traced the small cut on my collarbone, now dried and crusted with blood. After discovering my tattoo, Damien had dismissed me to my room with unnerving calm, his eyes never leaving the markings on my back. Whatever he thought he knew about my tattoo, he wasn't sharing—yet.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A maid entered, carrying a breakfast tray and fresh clothing.

"Mr. Blackwood requests your presence in the west parlor at noon, Miss," she said, her eyes downcast. "He says to wear this."

She laid out a deep burgundy dress with a modest neckline but a daringly low back—designed specifically to display my tattoo. Message received, Mr. Blackwood.

"Does he always get what he wants?" I asked as she turned to leave.

The maid paused. "Everyone in this house serves at Mr. Blackwood's pleasure, Miss. Including you."

After she left, I examined the room more carefully. The windows were reinforced with decorative but sturdy iron bars—beautiful prison bars were still prison bars. The door, though unlocked, likely led to monitored hallways. If I wanted to escape, I would need to be clever.

At precisely noon, I entered the west parlor, where Damien stood by a large fireplace, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. His eyes traveled over me appreciatively.

"The dress suits you," he said. "Turn around."

I remained still. "I'm not a doll for you to position."

His smile was cold. "No, you're much more valuable than that." He set down his drink and approached me. "Your father owed me more than money, Valentina. He promised me something priceless, something I suspect is encoded in that tattoo."

"My father was a drunk and a gambler," I replied. "Whatever he promised you died with him."

"We'll see." Damien gestured to a small table where a revolver lay. "Today's game is a bit more... exciting than cards."

My blood ran cold. "Russian roulette? Are you insane?"

"Only one chamber is loaded," he said casually. "We take turns. You can go first."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll have my men bring in Dr. Frost. He's quite skilled at extracting information—painfully."

I approached the table slowly, examining the revolver. It was an antique piece, polished to a high shine. As Damien turned to pour another drink, I quickly checked the cylinder. One bullet—as he claimed.

"Ladies first," he insisted, presenting the gun with a mocking bow.

I took the weapon, its weight foreign and threatening in my hand. My father had taught me to shoot when I was younger, but never like this, never with my life as the stake. Slowly, I raised the gun to my temple, my hand surprisingly steady.

"Scared?" Damien taunted.

"Of you? Hardly." I pulled the trigger.

Click.

Relief washed over me, though I kept my expression neutral. I handed him the gun, our fingers brushing.

Damien placed the barrel against his own temple without hesitation and pulled the trigger. Another empty chamber. Click.

We continued this macabre dance twice more, each time surviving the empty click of the hammer. When it was my turn again, I hesitated.

"Having second thoughts?" Damien asked. "We could always play a different game. One involving that beautiful dress coming off..."

I glared at him and pulled the trigger. Click.

When he took his turn, I watched his face carefully. No fear, no hesitation. It was as if he knew—

Click.

My suspicions grew. When he handed me the gun for my final turn, I made a show of trembling, then deliberately dropped the weapon. As I picked it up, I quickly checked the cylinder again. The bullet was gone.

He had rigged the game from the start.

"Problem?" he asked innocently.

I handed him back the gun. "Just giving you the opportunity to reconsider. It would be a shame to redecorate your lovely parlor with your brains."

He laughed—a genuine laugh that transformed his face, making him almost handsome. "You're more entertaining than I expected, Valentina."

He set the revolver aside and produced a small velvet bag from his pocket. "Perhaps a different game, then. Something more civilized."

He emptied the bag onto the table—a pair of dice, gleaming unnaturally in the firelight. They looked made of silver but had an odd, liquid quality to their shine.

"Simple rules," he explained. "We each roll. Higher number wins. If I win..." His eyes traveled over my dress. "I get to remove something of yours. Personally."

"And if I win?"

"You get to ask me one question that I must answer truthfully."

I considered this. Information was power, and I needed all I could get. "Deal."

He handed me the dice. They felt heavier than they should, cold against my palm. Loaded dice—I was certain of it. I rolled them across the table: a two and a three. Five.

Damien smiled and rolled: a four and a six. Ten.

"How unfortunate," he said, rising from his chair. "Stand up."

I stood, my heart racing as he circled behind me. His fingers traced the zipper at the back of my dress, sending involuntary shivers down my spine.

"Shall we see more of this mysterious tattoo?" he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

The zipper descended slowly, the dress loosening around me. I fought the urge to pull away as his fingers traced the exposed skin of my back, following the lines of the tattoo.

"Fascinating," he whispered. "These symbols... they're older than you know."

He pulled the dress back up, zipping it halfway. "Another roll, I think."

We continued the game. I rolled a seven; he rolled nine. Another loss. This time, he removed one of my shoes, his fingers lingering on my ankle longer than necessary.

By the third round, I had formulated a plan. As he handed me the dice, I palmed them differently, my fingers finding the tiny seams I suspected were there. When I rolled, I applied just enough pressure—three and two. Another five.

Damien took the dice, a confident smile playing on his lips. He rolled: double sixes.

"Twelve," he announced triumphantly. "I believe that's your other shoe, and perhaps something more substantial."

As he reached for the dice to clear them away, the seams I'd weakened gave way. The dice cracked open on the table, releasing a pool of silvery liquid—mercury—that flowed directly onto his hand.

Damien jerked back, but not before the mercury coated his fingers. His eyes met mine, shock giving way to understanding, then grudging respect.

"Mercury dice," I said calmly. "Clever. The weight distribution changes when heated by the hand, ensuring you always roll high. Unfortunately, the craftsmanship leaves something to be desired."

He stared at his mercury-covered hand, then did something that chilled me to the bone: he raised his fingers to his mouth and slowly licked the toxic metal from his skin.

"You're not the only one with secrets, Valentina," he said, his voice unnaturally calm. "Mercury can't harm me. But your little trick? That will cost you tonight."

A movement in the shadowy corner of the room caught my eye—a figure I hadn't noticed before. A tall, thin man in a physician's coat watched us with cold, calculating eyes. Dr. Frost, I presumed. He held something in his hand—a syringe filled with clear liquid.

As Damien reached for me, anger flashing in his eyes, Dr. Frost moved with surprising speed. The needle plunged into Damien's neck, and confusion crossed his face before his eyes rolled back. He collapsed into his chair, still conscious but dazed.

"Perfect timing, Doctor," I said, relief washing over me.

But when Dr. Frost turned those clinical eyes on me, I realized my mistake. The syringe in his hand was empty now, but he was already preparing another.

"Miss Emerson," he said, his voice as cold as his name. "Mr. Blackwood isn't the only one who requires answers about that tattoo."

I backed away, searching for an escape route, but my legs suddenly felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish. Whatever he had injected Damien with was affecting me too—through the mercury I'd touched.

As darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, I saw Dr. Frost approach with the second syringe.

"This one is just for you," he whispered. "A special blend to loosen the tongue. Let's see what secrets that pretty head of yours is hiding."

The last thing I saw before consciousness fled was Damien's face, his eyes clearing, locked on mine with an expression I couldn't decipher—rage, concern, or perhaps something else entirely.