He shifted upright again and fumbled for his wallet, fingers clumsy but practiced. It was still in his pocket—thank the gods—and tucked behind the ID cards and burner cash was the emergency lock pick. A slim, flattened bit of metal no one ever thought to search for.
It took longer than usual, and his hands shook with effort, but eventually the cuff clicked open and fell away. He sagged against the headboard, drenched in sweat. That small victory felt enormous.
The next step was worse.
Sitting up sent a rush of nausea spiraling through his gut, white-hot and dizzying. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, refusing to throw up. He wasn’t going to lie in his own vomit, not today.
Realistically, he knew what kind of shape he was in. His leg was a mess, his body weak, and he had no idea how far from help he was. Escape probably wasn’t possible.
But that didn’t matter. He had to try.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing was an exercise in sheer will—he had to brace himself against the mattress and push up in stages, wobbling like a newborn fawn. His injured leg nearly gave out, and he gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw popped. But he managed it.
He limped toward the door, every step a bolt of fire up his thigh. His progress was slow and halting, breath catching with each movement.
He was only a few feet from the door when it rattled.
Riven froze.
The knob turned.
There was no time. He scanned the room frantically for a weapon. A broken lamp, a curtain rod, the bed’s metal headboard—but before he could grab anything, the door creaked open.
One of Lareth’s men stood in the frame, silhouetted by the dim hallway light. Riven recognized him from the truck—tall, dark-haired, always quiet.
The man’s gaze dropped to Riven’s unshackled wrist, then to his trembling stance.
“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re not supposed to be up yet.”
Riven narrowed his eyes, heart hammering. “You want to explain that before I make you eat your own teeth?”
The man stepped quickly into the room and shut the door behind him. “No time. I’m Virellien. We have to move, now.”
That stopped Riven cold.
“What?”
“I’m with House Virellien,” the man repeated, more urgently this time. “Deep cover. You were supposed to stay sedated until we could extract you, but plans changed. We’ve got a window, but it’s closing fast.”
Riven stared at him, searching for a tell—a flinch, a lie, something that gave him away.
But the guy looked dead serious. And tense. Scared, maybe. Focused.
There was no time to be sure.
Riven had to make a call.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Fine. Let’s go.”
The man nodded and moved in to help. Riven didn’t shove him away. He hated that he needed the support—but if there was a way out of this place, he was taking it.
Even if it meant trusting a stranger in the dark.
Chapter 46
The escape was tense and breathlessly quiet, a narrow corridor of movement where every step risked catastrophe. Riven wanted to demand answers—who the hell this man was, how deep his cover ran, why no one had warned him that someone was already embedded in Lareth’s operation—but there was no time for questions. There was no room for anything except forward motion. Each second felt like it could split open and bleed noise, and Riven wasn’t about to be the one who gave them away.
Still, his mind wouldn’t slow. It made a grim sort of sense that Caerel hadn’t told him about a Virellien asset on the inside. If Riven had been caught, if he’d slipped or broken under pressure, the fewer secrets he carried, the less damage he could do. Fine. He could accept that. He just wished his leg wasn’t screaming with every goddamn step.
