Me.
Just me.
“Don’t do that,” I bite out.
“Do what?”
“Pretend we’re cozy. We’re not. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. I’m plotting your death as we speak.”
A tick in his jaw pulses, something flashing in his eyes that chills me to the bone. “Of course.”
I clear my throat, break from his gaze, and sink my stare into my soup. Another beat of chest-cracking silence before he reaches for a cloth on the bench and uses it to wipe my face.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t stop him from grabbing my spoon and feeding me like a youngling. I don’t stop him from ladling another serving he also feeds me before offering me a mug of water freshly poured from the tap.
I don’t stop him from wiping the soup from my shirt once we’re done. From leading me up the crooked staircase, through a skewed wooden door that’s high on one side, short on the other, and into a cozy sleep space with a single lopsided window and a large pallet topped with enough cushions and covers to drown in.
A sleep space that smells like him.
“The only exit is down the stairs and out the back door. That’s if you can creep past me quietly enough, since I’ll be sleeping on the seater. If you succeed, I’ll enjoy hunting you down, so be my fucking guest.”
“Privy?”
“Through there.” He points to another much smaller, more oddly shaped door as a burst of lightning ignites his beautiful, barbaric face in frightening undertones.
I lift my bound hands. “How am I supposed to—”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” he mutters, then closes the door so hard I jump.
Inudge at the scale pressed between my bound wrists until it flops onto my lap, then pinch it between my knees and get to work. Gaze homed on the door, I rub my rope across the tapered edge, severing the twirls of twine in fraying increments.
It cuts through much faster than I was anticipating, my hand slipping as the rope gives way—
The scale slices into my arm, and I suck a sharp breath, clamping my jaw against the slit of pain.
Shit—fuck—dragon balls!
Dammit, Raeve …
I use my teeth to unravel my binds before pressing a hand on the cut, blood leaching through the gaps between my fingers and dribbling onto the pallet.
I sigh.
Guess I broke the no more bloodshed this slumber rule.
Definitely time to kick myself out.
I rush into the washroom and crank the copper faucet barely visible in the dull light, dragging my arm beneath the gushing flow and doing what I can to clean off the blood. Tearing a strip from my shirt, I bind the wound, using my teeth to tie off the knot before smiling at my handiwork—victory popping beneath my ribs in giddy bursts.
I might’ve wounded myself, but I’m free.
Free!
Fuck yes. Now I just have to get away.
I use the privy, lavishing in the freedom of being able to wipe my ass comfortably. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I move back into the sleep space, nipping another glance at the still-closed door.
Drawn to the drawers at the end of the pallet, I pry the first open and rummage for something more comfortable than the scratchy garments I thought I’d die in, finding a black shirt that’s butter-soft. I pull out some equally soft pants that are short enough they likely cut off at Kaan’s knees.
They’ll probably still swallow me.
Shrugging, I tug them on anyway, discovering they have a drawstring that allows me to cinch them at my waist.
I keep my hair tucked beneath the oversized shirt now hanging off my shoulder as I creep back onto the pallet. Pulling the blankets up around myself despite the humid heat, I stash the scale and severed binds beneath the covers while I watch the door.
Giving Kaan time to fall asleep, I wait—entombed in the smell of cream and molten stone.
The storm howls, dumping rain upon the roof, pelting against the little window. The space dark and gloomy as I bide my time, picking at the skin down the side of my nails, picturing all the gory things I’m going to do to the male who killed Essi and slashed my back to shreds.
I’m coming for you, Rekk Zharos …
You fuck.
But first, I have to escape a king.
Iedge the door open, my breaths soft and steady. Mind calm—sunken into that quiet place I go when I have a job to do.
With the scale clutched in my right hand, I make for the stairs, timing my movements to the ferocious beat of the storm lashing against the dwelling, dragging my left hand down the wall to steady myself. I descend toward the ground floor, movements soft and slow, four steps from the bottom when a bolt of lightning ignites the room.