I whisper into the thinning dark:
“…Who are you?”
No answer.
Just the pull, stronger than ever.
And the certainty that I’m close.
So close I can almost feel her breath.
Chapter 16
Bree
I can’t stop staring at the dress.
It’s been—I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t work here. But since he left, since he smiled like he’d already won, I haven’t been able to look away from the dark fabric pooled on the table.
It’s just clothes.
Just fabric.
Nothing more.
I tell myself this over and over, but it doesn’t help.
Because I’m freezing. My torn clothes are filthy, stiff with dirt and sweat and whatever else I’ve dragged through. My skin feels grimy. Wrong.
And that dress—
That dress looks soft. Clean. Beautiful.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper to the empty chamber. “Putting on clean clothes doesn’t mean I’m giving in.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
Everything here means something.
I push to my feet, legs unsteady, and move toward the table.
My hand hovers over the silk.
Just touch it. See if it’s as soft as it looks.
My fingers brush the fabric, and it slides like water.
Softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
I lift the dress slowly, fabric spilling over my hands, catching the silver firelight.
It’s beautiful.
And I hate how much I want to put it on.
I glance toward the mirror—still there, watching—and deliberately turn my back to it.
As if that makes a difference.
