LYNX PEEREDout the window, gathering the long pale pink drape in her hand and pulling it back to reveal a never-ending blue sky with run-down buildings and mosques littering the horizon. Focusing on the bright fireball, she allowed the sun to warm her for a moment. Then she squeezed her eyes tight, blocking the light, her heart a black Arabian stallion galloping in a dusty ring, her eyelids a heavy dam for the tears she wouldn’t allow herself to shed.
She’d absolutely forbidden herself to cry.
Turning her hand, she opened her eyes and glanced at the small scabbed-over indentations where she’d dug her own fingernails into her palm to stop the salty flow from escaping. Tiny crescent moons—both faint and recently crusted over—created their own patterns like constellations in the sky. Lynx could get lost in the labyrinth before her, searching for some hidden meaning.
But she didn’t.
The heavy curtain fluttered closed behind her as she turned and took in the grandeur of her surroundings. Tapestries woven in rich jewel tones adorned the walls, and soft wool rugs covered the floors. Lynx ran her hand along the sumptuous satin lining of the chaise she lay on and forced her panic to flee with her breath.
Never in a million years had she dreamed of living in such opulence, and yet here she was in the middle of this palatial room, clothed in designer garments and draped in emeralds and sapphires.
There was no reason to cry. She was extremely special, and this was her home.
Or so she was told.
