Slowly, I wrap my hand around the cool skin of her ankle. It feels small in my grip, almost frail, and when I slide the key into the lock and undo it, Stasi flinches again.
I glance down, my throat tightening at the band of red that appears as the shackles loosen. Raised, thick welts, as though the metal has been rubbing against the fragile skin. “These were done too tightly. Why didn’t you say anything?”
She yanks away from me, reaching down to massage the abused skin. “Like you would have cared.”
There’s no heat in her words. Just exhaustion, as she pushes the metal off. It clinks as it falls to the floor, and my mouth tightens. “Who says I don’t?”
The words slip out, and she shoots me a disbelieving look as I stand and move my attention to her wrists. A thick metal band circles each one, linked by a chain as I flick through the keys in my hand for the right one. “Please. As if you’re not all intent on making my life as horrible as it can possibly be for as long as I’m here.”
She lets out an audible breath of relief as the shackles loosen, and I turn her wrist gently, inspecting the marks. These were on tighter still, the skin almost raw underneath. The sight of her skin, marked up like this… my mouth firms.
“Who put these on you?”
My voice is harsh in the small space, and her eyes lift to mine. “Parrish.”
“Parrish,” I repeat slowly. “Who the hell is Parrish?”
She scoffs. “You’d like him. He’s part of theI hate Anastasiaclub too. Maybe you could all wear matching badges.”
She tries to pull her hand away, but my grip tightens. “Tell me about him.”
She looks away from me. “Nobody. He was a guard. An asshole guard.”
A guard.
I do the math in my head. She was in that cell for weeks, based on the headlines. A month at least.
“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” I ask quietly. My finger traces the marks, and she hisses.
“Stop it,” she whispers. “It doesn’t matter, Kit.”
The denial rises up in my throat. It doesn’tmatter?
“It matters,” I say shortly. “Tell me.”
She pulls, but I hold steady. “Why? So you can hold it over me? Laugh at me? Tell Rafe, so he can throw it at me as a punishment? I don’t think so.”
The bitterness in her voice smacks into my skin like bullets. “We wouldn’t do that.”
I know my twin. Better than he knows himself. He may be angry, may throw words around in sharp strikes, but I know that if he finds out about this, finds out that somebody put marks on Anastasia’s skin,Parrishis a dead fucking man.
Although not if I get to him first.
Her laugh is sharp shards of hopelessness. “Sure.”
I finally let her wrist go, only to slide my fingers down, entangling them with hers. She freezes. “Wha- what are you doing?”
Maybe Silas was right. It would be easy to forget, to lose myself in the feeling of her hand in mine. Exactly where it was always supposed to be.
My words drag from my chest, brusque and deep. “Come with me.”
For a moment, I think she’ll argue. Think she’ll rip her fingers from mine, and if that happens, I might just drag her with me anyway.
But she doesn’t. Her fingers slowly curl around mine, a silent acceptance. “Where?”
I lead her from the kitchen, glancing around for any sign of my brothers or Ellen, but the hall is deserted. We head up the steps into the hall, and then up to the second floor. Stasi hesitates as I push open a door. “Kit.”
I squeeze her fingers in response.
