Chapter 3 Confessions Under the Serum

# Chapter 3: Confessions Under the Serum

Consciousness returned in fragments—the taste of copper in my mouth, the cold leather of a chair against my skin, a distant voice asking questions like persistent raindrops. I tried to focus, but my thoughts scattered like marbles on a tilted floor.

"The tattoo, Miss Emerson. What does it mean?"

Dr. Frost's face swam into view, his features sharp and predatory. Behind him, Damien leaned against the wall, his posture casual but his eyes alert. We were in a different room now—windowless, with stone walls that suggested we were underground.

"I don't..." My tongue felt swollen, uncooperative.

"The serum takes full effect within minutes," Dr. Frost said clinically. "Fighting it only causes discomfort."

A warm sensation spread through my veins, pleasant and terrifying. My body relaxed against my will, my mind floating in a strange fog where secrets didn't seem worth keeping.

"The tattoo," he repeated. "Your father encoded something in it. What is it?"

"A map," I heard myself say, the words spilling out unbidden. "To the Emerson Collection."

Damien pushed away from the wall, suddenly interested. "The lost artifacts? I thought they were destroyed in the museum fire."

I tried to stop myself, but the words continued. "Father saved them. Hid them. The tattoo shows the way."

Dr. Frost smiled coldly. "And the code to access them?"

My mouth opened of its own accord. "The sequence is hidden in the cardinal points. North begins with—"

"Stop." Damien moved between us, blocking Dr. Frost's view of me. "That's enough."

The doctor's face hardened. "Mr. Blackwood, need I remind you that our arrangement—"

"Our arrangement was that you'd help me understand the tattoo, not torture information out of her." Damien's voice was deadly calm. "Leave us."

"The serum will wear off in an hour," Dr. Frost said, gathering his instruments. "You're wasting a perfect opportunity."

After the doctor left, Damien knelt before me, his face level with mine. In my drugged state, I noticed details I'd missed before—the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, a small scar at the corner of his mouth, the slight asymmetry of his features that somehow made him more attractive rather than less.

"Valentina," he said softly. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," I replied automatically. "Your eyes are pretty up close."

A smile flickered across his face. "A truth serum side effect—random observations. Focus on my voice. I need to know something, and I need you to answer truthfully."

"I can't lie right now," I mumbled. "It's annoying."

"Did your father tell you what the Emerson Collection actually contains?"

I frowned, fighting through the fog. "Ancient artifacts. Family treasures. One item in particular—he called it 'the heart of darkness.'"

Damien's expression changed, a shadow passing over his features. "Did he tell you about me? About my family?"

"No. He just said... if anything happened to him, I should trust no one. Especially not men with black rings."

His eyes dropped to his hand, where a black signet ring adorned his finger. "I see."

"Why did you buy me?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

He stood up, turning away. "Because your father stole something that belongs to my family. I thought you were the key to finding it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not sure what you are." He glanced back at me. "But you're more than just Gerald Emerson's daughter."

As he moved, the light caught something on his neck—a small mark just below his ear. I squinted, trying to focus through the drug haze. It looked like a burn, shaped oddly like...

"Your ring," I blurted out. "That mark matches your ring."

His hand moved instinctively to cover it. "The serum is making you see things."

"No." Despite the drug, certainty cut through the fog. "It's the same symbol. Why would you brand yourself with your own family crest?"

A muscle worked in his jaw. "Not all marks are chosen, Valentina."

Before I could question him further, he moved behind my chair. I felt his fingers brush against my shoulder blades, tracing the tattoo.

"Your father was a brilliant man," he said quietly. "Brilliant and dangerous. Do you know why he chose these specific symbols for your tattoo?"

"He said they were our family legacy. That the pattern would protect me."

"Protect you?" Damien laughed without humor. "Or mark you as a target?"

The drug was making it difficult to maintain a train of thought, but something bothered me. I tried to twist around to see him. "If you wanted the collection, why not just torture me? Why the games?"

His fingers stilled on my skin. "Because the Blackwood and Emerson families have a... complicated history. The games are tradition."

"What kind of twisted tradition involves buying people at auction?"

"The kind that's sustained by blood and secrets for centuries." He circled back to face me, then suddenly knelt and pushed up the hem of my dress, exposing my thigh.

I tried to protest, but the drug made my reactions slow. His fingers traced a pattern on my inner thigh—a small birthmark I'd had since childhood, shaped like a crescent moon with three stars.

"As I suspected," he murmured. "The mark of the executioner."

"What are you talking about? It's just a birthmark."

Damien's eyes met mine, something like pity in them. "Your father never told you the truth about who you are, did he? What you were born to do?"

Before I could answer, he unbuttoned his shirt collar and pulled it aside, revealing the full mark on his neck—not just his family crest, but an intricate design surrounding it, burn scars that had healed silver with age.

"In every generation, a Blackwood is marked as sacrifice," he said quietly. "And an Emerson is born to be the executioner. It's been this way since the pact was made four hundred years ago."

The room seemed to tilt. "You're saying my birthmark means I'm supposed to... kill you?"

"According to the old magic that binds our families, yes. You are the designated killer, and I am the designated victim." His smile was bitter. "Your father knew this. It's why he tried to keep you hidden from my family. Why he encoded the location of the collection in your skin."

"That's insane." I struggled against the restraints holding me to the chair. "I'm not a killer."

"No?" He reached out, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "The moment we met, you tried to stab me with a hairpin. There's killer instinct in you, Valentina. It's in your blood."

"I was trying to escape, not fulfill some ancient family curse!"

"Perhaps. But the pull is there—you feel it, don't you? When we're close. The urge to end me."

He wasn't entirely wrong. Something about Damien called to me on a primal level—a magnetic pull that could be desire or destruction or both.

"If you believe I'm destined to kill you," I said slowly, "why keep me here? Why not kill me first?"

"Because the curse works both ways. If you die before fulfilling your purpose, my fate is worse than death." He stood, buttoning his collar. "Besides, I'm not convinced destiny can't be rewritten."

The drug was beginning to wear off, my thoughts becoming clearer. "This is why you wanted the collection. You think there's something in it that can break the curse."

"The Heart of Darkness isn't just an artifact—it's the physical manifestation of the pact. Destroy it, and perhaps the curse dies with it."

A commotion outside the door interrupted us—raised voices, then footsteps approaching rapidly. Damien tensed, moving protectively in front of me.

The door burst open, revealing a young man with tousled blond hair and a bloodied lip. Behind him, two security guards looked apologetic.

"Sorry, sir," one began. "He insisted—"

"Remy," Damien growled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The newcomer—Remy—ignored him, his eyes finding mine. "Miss Emerson? Thank God I found you." He turned to Damien. "Let her go, Blackwood. This has gone far enough."

"You're interrupting a private conversation," Damien said coldly. "Leave, now."

"Not without her." Remy took a step forward. "She deserves to know the truth."

"And what truth is that?" Damien asked, his voice dangerous.

Remy looked directly at me, his blue eyes intense. "Miss Emerson, your father didn't die from gambling debts or bad investments. He was murdered." He pointed at the door through which Dr. Frost had departed. "By him. Dr. Frost administered a slow-acting poison on Blackwood's orders."

The accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud. I turned to Damien, searching his face for denial or confirmation.

His expression gave nothing away. "Remy has always had a flair for the dramatic."

"It's true," Remy insisted. "I worked for your father. I was his research assistant. The night he died, Dr. Frost visited him. Two days later, Professor Emerson was dead—and the autopsy was suspiciously quick and private."

My head spun, the remnants of the truth serum making it hard to sort truth from fiction. "If what you're saying is true, why are you only coming forward now?"

"Because I've been searching for you for months! After your father's death, you disappeared. It wasn't until I heard rumors about the auction that I traced you here." Remy extended his hand to me. "Please, Miss Emerson. Come with me. I can protect you."

Damien's laugh was cold. "Protect her? You can barely protect yourself."

I looked between them—Damien with his dark intensity and dangerous allure, Remy with his earnest eyes and bloodied lip. One claimed I was born to kill him; the other claimed he had killed my father.

Both could be lying. Both could be telling the truth.

Before I could decide whom to trust, Dr. Frost reappeared in the doorway, a new syringe in hand.

"I see we have company," he said, his voice clinical. "How convenient. I was just coming to administer the second dose."