Graysen stood in front of the entrance, watching me warily.
I stormed forward. Shoved him. “Let me out!”
Nothing. He may as well have been made of stone.
“I want to see my father!”
“You can’t leave here.” To prove his point, he reached behind and pushed down the door handle. The metallic sound of the lock clicking free grated in my ears as he pulled the door wide, stepping aside.
My gaze greedily gobbled up that unlocked doorway.
Past the landing, blue light gleamed over the curve of steps leading downward.
Graysen backed away with slow, steady footsteps, silently observing me as if I were a wild, cornered animal. I jittered on the spot. My gaze cut from him to the door and back to him.
He swept his hand toward the open doorway.
It was a trick. I knew it was a trick. And yet, despite knowing it, I had to try. Like drowning beneath the surface of an ocean, knowing the moment I inhaled, water would rush down my throat, I had to try.
I hurtled forward—
Right as I was about to burst through to freedom—
The collar around my neck snagged tight. My hands scrambled for Zrenyth’s cord, at the agonizing pain squeezing my throat.I skidded, my feet catching beneath me, and I tumbled onto my ass.
Zrenyth’s magic relaxed its hold, and I sucked in rasping, burning breaths of fire.
Graysen loomed above me. The angle of his body blocked out the overhead light, and his shadow fell upon me. “You can’t leave this room.”
Hot, blistering wrath exploded.
I pushed to my feet and shrieked, “You’re a bastard!” My voice was hoarse, my throat ravaged and raw. Savage like the wild animal I truly was, I surged forward. Anguish and loathing reared in a toxic haze, clouding my mind and sending me spiraling into simple, desperate action.
I hit him. An ugly strike. An ugly sound of flesh striking flesh, right across his cheek.
His gaze blazed with pure primal rage and something else I was in no state to decipher.
He got right in my face and roared, “Again!”
I struck out, slapping his face.
“Harder!”
I slapped his face again and again in a flurry of hatred and grief. Smashed my fist into his chest. Pummeled his gut. My knuckles stung where my skin was scuffed and bleeding, my palms throbbed as if I had hit solid adamere, and the room filled with anguished choking sounds.
He stood there and took everything I threw at him.
I kept hitting him, only half aware of the cry leaving my throat that sounded like heartache and felt like falling into an abyss, my limbs flailing, desperately trying to grip onto anything to save me.
Too much…it was all too much.
I crumpled. And before my knees hit the carpet, he caught me.
My fingers latched onto the front of his armor. “I hate you…” I wanted to snarl it into his face, but it came out more as a pathetic whimper.
He was panting, his breath as uneven as mine, his swelling cheek a canvas of red and bruised purple. Thick brows drew together over dark, glittering eyes shot through with remorse, shuttered away a heartbeat later.
He eased me back to standing, and when I’d steadied myself, he backed off, giving me space. I bent in half, bracing my hands on my shaking knees, dragging in rasping breaths. My heart sank, weariness seeped through me, despair and sorrow at being caged. I’d been denied speaking with my father, and he with me as well.
