Now, I see it clearly: he’s just another prison warden, just like my father.
And the future I thought I could taste was only ever another cage.
6
SIMA
The door shuts behind him. A second later, I hear the clunk of a lock sliding into place.
The sound crushes whatever scraps of hope I was still holding onto. This is proof he means it.But just in case, I rush to the door, grab the handle, and twist hard.
Nothing.
It doesn’t budge. I rattle it, but it doesn’t change a thing. The metal clanks like it’s laughing at me for even trying.
My throat goes dry. I turn and scan the room. What’s next? What’s vulnerable? My eyes land on the windows. I hurry over, yank at the curtains, and shove at the glass.
It doesn’t move. Not even a crack.
I throw my weight against it, palms flat, shoulder pressed to the frame, but it’s sealed tight. The panes don’t give, not even a little.
A tight, panicked sound escapes my throat.
I’m trapped. Really, truly trapped.
My chest heaves as I back away from the window. I close my eyes and try not to freak out.
Hours drag by, slow and heavy. The room stays quiet, too quiet, until finally the shuffle of keys breaks through the silence.
The lock turns and the door opens. I jerk upright, heart racing, half-hoping it’s Petyr who’s come back to his senses.
But it isn’t. It’s Anya.
She steps inside, a tray balanced in both hands. A bowl, a plate, a glass of water. The smell of reheated stew hits me before I even see the food.
She doesn’t greet me or otherwise acknowledge me. Just heads straight to the dresser and sets the tray down with a muted clink.
I almost feel glad to see her. Any human face is better than staring at these walls. But Anya’s never been warm with me. Not before, and definitely not now.
She was Petyr’s father’s housekeeper first. She didn’t soften to him, and she sure as hell never softened to me.
I remember the way she used to look at me, like I was a stain on the rug she couldn’t scrub out. She never thought I belonged here. And after six months gone? That look hasn’t changed.
I wet my lips and shift on the edge of the bed. “Where’s Petyr? Is he coming back tonight?”
Anya straightens, turns to me. Her eyes narrow. “The young master is busy,” she says. “Too busy to waste his time here.”
I try again, softer this time. “I just need to?—”
She cuts me off with another glare, colder than the first. “Eat. Rest. Don’t expect more than that.”
Sure. Maybe I could pee in the potted plants too, like a good pet.
I swallow the lump in my throat. No sense turning the woman who handles my food into even more of an enemy.
Without so much as a glance back at me, she walks to the door. The keys jingle in her hand. She steps out, pulls the door shut, and the lock clicks again, sealing me in.
The silence returns, heavier than before.
