Chapter 6
Nelle
Ihad the sensation of floating, of being comforted by fluffy clouds, the crisp scent of a forest after a gentle soaking of rain washing down my lungs.
Waking, I pried apart gritty eyes to peer at a soft glowing light glancing over glossy curves and twists of ebony wood and a high ceiling I didn’t recognize.
My hands skimmed silk and soft cotton.
This wasn’t my room.
It took a long-confused moment for muddled sleep to fall away and my mind to fully awaken.
The Crowthers…
Flashes of memory barreled through me. Wyrmfire and screaming, sinister threats delivered in candlelit rooms, my father’s voice roaring.
My hand went to my throat first. My fingers encountered the collar’s coarse fibers.
Oh my gods.
Violent terror swelled inside my chest, thick and suffocating, stealing my breath as hot tears threatened to spill.
Breathe… Breathe.
I swiped aside the last memory spinning through my mind. I refused to think about the man with dark, guilty eyes, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t put the magical collar around my neck—so I had done it for him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid me!
I huffed quick, quiet breaths through my nose, shoving back the panic at finding myself trapped behind stone walls. There was no room for panic right now. I wouldn’t be able to find a way out of this prison if I were crippled by fright and heartache.
My gaze slid sideways.
A chrome lamp with a long neck curved high above a woman curled up on the couch, a book splayed open on her lap. It was the same woman who had come into the family room to announce that my father had arrived on the Crowther’s estate.
My tongue felt thick and heavy in a mouth that was parched.
Penn glanced over. Her fingers stilled, caught halfway in the motion of turning a page.
I sat up, my body aching and the movement lethargic. Cashmere blankets and silk sheets fell to my waist. Underneath it all, I sat on a nest of fluffy towels, utterly naked.
The other woman quickly averted her gaze, and a flush of color crept up her neck to stain her cheeks pink, but I was beyond feeling embarrassed about someone seeing me unclothed. I’d battled the Crowthers in nothing but a godsdamned fire-scorched t-shirt.
Squirming about, I re-adjusted myself to steal a towel and wrapped it around my body. I frowned, pushing a tangle of fuzzy hair off my forehead, trying to remember the last thing before sleep had claimed me.
I had been showering.
Someone, no doubt Graysen, had found me slumbering on the bathroom floor and had carried me to his bed to allow me to rest. But for how long?
There was no concept of time passing in his room with its windowless walls. Had it been only a few hours since I had fallen asleep in the shower? A few minutes? A full day?
“What time is it?” I rasped, wincing at the soreness in my throat. It felt as if I’d been screaming myself hoarse, or I was coming down with a rare cold.
Penn peeked, saw I was presentable, and placed the book on the couch beside her. Untucking her legs, she smoothed out the long skirt of her servant’s uniform that reached a little higher than her ankles. “It’s mid-morning.” Her voice was soft, pleasant even.
She had dark brown hair swept back in a tidy bun.
A few loose tendrils framed a delicate face with fine-boned features.
Her wrists, poking out beneath the white sleeve cuffs of her uniform, seemed fragile, too.
Good. Because I was sizing her up. Seated, I wasn’t sure exactly how tall she was, but she looked like she might be only a few inches taller than myself.
I was tiny at five-foot-nothing, but I’d make every inch count.
Raising a hand, I scrubbed the sleep from my eyes before glancing about the room.
The walls were bare except for one area designated for Graysen’s books.
Across from me was a small dining table crafted from the same type of ebony wood as the bed I’d slept in; an office workspace of sorts; and several tall drawers.
The black leather couch’s cushions were in soft grays, charcoals, and blacks, much like the blankets in midnight colors that adorned the bedding, which enhanced the stark feel of imprisonment.
And no Graysen.
It was hard to push out the words or even care to. “Where is Graysen?” To my own ears, my voice sounded flat, dull, and lifeless. A heavy feeling pressed down on me, lethargy perhaps, but it felt more than that. I also realized I was starving…and my bladder was nearly bursting.
I half-fell from the bed. My knees wobbled under me like a newborn foal as I stumbled to the bathroom, rushing to the toilet.
After I’d relieved myself, I washed my hands, then dried my palms on the towel wrapped around my body, tightening and re-tucking the edge.
I had no clothes. I had nothing that belonged to me.
Before fear could slink back in, I exhaled a long breath as I took in my appearance in the mirror.
Though my hair was clean of soot, I needed to untangle the frizzy knots.
My tired eyes were a little bloodshot, my complexion duller, and I ached and stung from the bruises and scrapes all over my body.
And that collar.
That godsdamned magical rope.
It was a parasite. A blocker. A ward between me and my wyrm. I fumbled at the knot at the nape of my neck, and trying to untie it proved impossible.
Besides all that, it fucking itched. My fingers weaseled past the gap beneath the coil, seeking to soothe the irritated skin.
My nostrils flared as rage heated my blood like a billow pumping air onto embers.
The collar was the choice Graysen had made.
His own. A message to my father—that he held my family’s safety, their very lives, in his palm—and it was the last act that cleaved him and I apart.
I had to free myself from the Crowthers, and right now the only person I could threaten stood outside that bathroom door.
Quietly, I pulled out the drawers in the vanity, shooting quick, furtive glances over my shoulder, listening for a warning of Penn’s approach.
Carefully rifling through the products, looking for anything I could use as a weapon.
Nothing. No razor blades for shavers, or scissors, not even a godsdamned nail file.
Curse him to Nine Hells!
Frustration had me rapping my fingertips against the vanity counter. Resolve had my gaze snapping to the door. Surely there’d be something out in his room, maybe a knife brought in with my breakfast.
I stepped out of the bathroom and found Penn standing beside the dining table where a silver breakfast tray sat beneath a cloche, catching the soft light from the reading lamp. I was right—she had to be only five-foot-four, with a dainty-looking figure and doll-like features.
Perfect.
It should be easy to overpower her.
All I had to do was get hold of her. Rough her up a bit and scare the hells out of her, which at this moment I certainly wasn’t averse to. I was practically itching to deliver violence.
Penn pulled the cloche off, set it aside and placed my breakfast on the table, along with silver cutlery.
The knife gleamed, teasing me.
It should be easy to grab hold of Penn by her hair, press the blade to her throat hard enough to draw blood, and terrorize her into unknotting the collar.
She turned to face me, smiling politely, and I quickly plastered on an innocent expression.
She said, “Have something to eat, and if you need more sleep, you can—”
“I’m not going to sleep there,” I shot back, scowling at the monstrosity that was Graysen’s bed. Large and tall, carved from a single mass of wood. Posts rose from each corner, curving inward as they climbed, twisting and flaring until they met overhead. The shape was unmistakable.
A birdcage.
I barked a harsh laugh that caught in my throat and turned into a hacking cough.
Holy shit.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I sucked in a slow, careful breath to ease the soreness.
“He said you’d say that,” she replied.
I rolled my eyes and caught her lips twitching with amusement, but she refrained from smiling. “And…that eye-rolling thing, too.”
Arrogant bastard!
Penn pulled out the chair with its worn leather seat, its feet sliding upon the dark carpet, and then retreated, waiting for me to be seated.
Her eyes, their blue hue like sapphires.
Yet, it was the quality in their depths staring back at me that made me pause.
They looked too old in a face so young and seemed to hold a wary note in them as if she’d seen far more of life than she should have.
She gestured to the bowl filled with chunks of glistening fruit and a slice of wholegrain toast on a side plate. “You must be starving.”
When was the last time I’d eaten?
Crappy pancakes. Graysen had made them while he plotted to steal me.
Fury exploded, scorching my chest, and violence detonated.
It wasn’t food I went for first—it was the knife.
I lunged, snatching it up and whirling to slash the air in a ruthless arc.
Penn jerked back.
I shoved forward, reaching for her head.
She deftly sidestepped—
Easily thwarted me with a bone-jarring slap on my wrist.
The knife flew free, spinning away.
No, no, no!
She gripped my forearm, twisting it at my back, and I shrieked as she thrust me against the wall.
My face struck stone, and my bottom lip split as dizzying stars burst inside my mind.
White-hot pain ripped through my shoulder, and I panted, squirming, the stone scraping my skin, but she was too formidable—shoving me forward, effortlessly subduing me, contorting my arm at my back even more.
Shit, shit, shit!
“Don’t bother trying,” she said, pressing close, speaking into my ear. It wasn’t harsh. Nor was she laughing at my pathetic attempt either. Simply a warning. “It’s a butter knife. Not exactly the world’s deadliest weapon.”
Embarrassment heated my cheeks. Butter knife or not, for that brief moment it had felt glorious to wield it.