"I'll let him know you're dressed," he says and shuts the door.
The sound is louder than I expected and I flinch.
The lock clicks into place.
"Guess I'll wait," I say to the shut door.
I'm good at waiting.
I've been waiting my whole life.
Waiting for my mother to come home when I was a kid.
Waiting for Cormac to acknowledge me when I found him. Or the Order to let me prove myself.
Waiting for the ritual to end or for my payment to end.
But this is different.
Because this time, I'm not just waiting for something to happen.
I'm waiting for him. And I hate that I'm starting to hope he'll come. To see the one person who has given me some resemblance of kindness and so far has expected nothing in return.
Or that I feel safer locked in this room than I ever did in the Order.
I hate that I keep replaying the moment he handed me the robe, the way his jaw tightened, the way he looked at me like I was something fragile instead of something broken.
I hate all of it, but I can't stop.
Because what if he's not the monster I thought he would be. What if we've been wrong this whole time.
18
ZARIA
Ihear the door unlock and I stand before I even register the sound, my body moving on instinct.
The door swings open and Callum steps inside.
Just like the first night. Same posture, same unreadable face, same quiet heaviness that fills a room before he even speaks.
A guard follows him in carrying a silver tray of food. He sets it on the dresser without a word and slips out, shutting the door behind him.
It's just the two of us now and I do what I've been trained to do.
I bow.
A full, formal bend at the waist, eyes lowered, hands clasped in front of me, bow.
"Good morning," I say.
When I lift my head, Callum is staring at me like I've grown a second head.
"Do you normally do that?" he asks.
Heat floods my face.
I straighten too quickly, my hands fumbling against the denim of my jeans.
