When he shuts the door and locks it behind him, I sit straight up, only possible because the only shackles on me now are on my ankles. I glance at the plate of dry, stodgy oatmeal. Every day, the same thing, and every day, I eat every last drop. Not because I like it, but because I have plans.
Now that he’s gone, I continue what I was doing by moving into a plank position, my hands firmly planted on the stone, and I resume my morning pushups.
I start with one hundred in the morning, finish the night with another hundred. I also work on wall sits to keep my legs strong, do squats, lunges, and shadow boxing. Luckily, they didn’t bind my legs together. Instead, they put a shackle on each ankle chained to the wall, offering me plenty of slack.
I plan my workouts around when I know they’re nowhere near my cell and they can’t hear me. I did a thorough scope for cameras, and there are none.Fools. How they’ve underestimated me.And because I’ve portrayed myself as feeble with zero energy, they’ve lightened security.
There used to be a guard at my door, but not anymore. They also used to have my hands bound together. I’m just waiting for the moment where they unbind my legs. I know it’s coming.
The boss might not order it, but the peon will do it. He’s the one who unbound my hands. He’s not as evil as the others. He will be spared.
When I’m done with my pushups, and my chest’s on fire, I sit down on my hay and pick up my metal plate of oatmeal. I’ve also noticed the peon has a soft heart from the portions of food he’s been giving me every day. They’ve been growing. Today, there are at least two palmfuls of oatmeal. Just what I need for the energy I exert to keep strong.And not much more.But it will do.
I chew down the sticky, flavorless substance, sprinkling in some of my water to make it bearable, and stare at the door in front of me.
They will pay.
They have no fucking clue what I’m capable of . . . and what they took away from me.
I might be in Arkham, but the country is a mere vessel for my capture. King Magnus might be an accomplice, but he’s not the one behind this. He doesn’t know me. The letters that were sent to the palace were personal. They were about revenge.
And I will spend every waking hour figuring out who did this to me, and they will be brought to justice.
ChapterTwenty-One
LILLY
“We’re so happy you’re here,” Isabella says as she takes my hand and squeezes it.
After a private flight to Marsdale, I was escorted through the capital in a black SUV. Lara accompanied me but stayed pretty silent. I stared out the windows, taking in the majestic, rolling hills covered in snow. I’ve never been to Scotland before, but I’ve seen pictures, and this is what it reminds me of. Stone walls throughout the valleys, crystal-white snow dotting the grounds, and sheep with their large wool coats making their heads seem whimsically small.
When I was reading about Marsdale, I appreciated that they take pride in their farming, just like Torskethorpe takes pride in their fishing. Best known for their barley for malting liquors, they also hold the sector in dairy production and fine cheeses, which I found quite interesting. A vast difference than freaking fermented cod cakes. Come on, Torskethorpe!
When I arrived at the palace, I was greeted by open arms, given a tour—the palace layout is quite similar to Strombly—and then taken up to my room. A beautiful room to say the least. Decorated in whites, golds, and light blues, they filled the bright space with fresh flowers and everything I could possibly need for my stay. They went above and beyond to make this a comfortable spot for me. I’m grateful for it.
“I’m happy I’m here too,” I say as I take a seat on the bed, instantly being molded into the plush mattress. “I needed this.”
“Yes, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. If you ever need to talk, we’re here,” Isabella says just as Marit comes through the bedroom holding a tray.
“I figured we could sit and chat,” Marit says. “Drinks are coming. I told Martha that we’d like to get started on the cookies.” Marit sets them down in the sitting area of the bedroom. “And before you say you’re not hungry, we’ve been given strict orders from Runa to make you eat.”
With a chuckle, I move over to the seating area as well and pick up one of the Linzer cookies. “She’s been on my case a lot lately.”
“I don’t blame her,” Isabella says softly. “We heard about the health scare. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” I take a bite of my cookie. “I figured Katla told your mom. I think everyone was scared there for a second, even me.”
“I’m afraid to ask, but are you feeling better?” Marit inquires.
Am I feeling better? Can anyone really feel better after what I’ve gone through? At least not this quickly. I’m still heartbroken, which is swapped out for anger daily. I fluctuate from feeling debilitated to ready to riot against the man who I thought loved me. It’s exhausting.
“A little. Each day feels like a new opportunity, and I’m trying to make the most of it while not taking on too much.”
“That’s really good,” Isabella says. “And we’re here to help you with moving forward. It’s not as cold here as it is in Torskethorpe, so we have some fun winter activities we can do. We can also just lie about the palace and drink wine.”
“Wine is always preferred,” Marit says.
“Our chef loves giving cooking lessons. Marit and I take them often, so we can sit in on those. He’s very patient.”
