Slowly, she crossed the room, her hand prematurely reaching for the knob, but she already knew what she would find.
It jiggled, but didn’t open.
Locked.
Her heart tripped into overdrive as she rattled the handle again.
Pressing her weight against the wood, she slapped her palms on the sleek surface. “Hello? Anyone?”
No use.
She was locked in from the outside. They never gave her the key.
How could she have been so stupid? She wasn’t supposed to trust anyone, yet she walked right into a cage and let them lock her inside.
Helpless.
“Fuck!”
She didn’t even have a phone. And for all its luxurious amenities, neither did the suite. “God damnit!” Her hands balled into fists.
“What do I do?” She turned like a fool searching for solutions that didn’t exist.
She went to the window, flinging back the drapes. Her hands pressed on the glass, but it wouldn’t budge. Night had fallen, and her troubled reflection stared back at her in a mirror of black.
“Shit.”
Shadows moved in the distance, a shimmer, like a ripple. Stars pierced the sky like pinholes in a sheet of endless blue. Daisy framed her eyes to block out the interior light, and they adjusted to the darkness.
Was that water?
The moon’s filtered glow reflected below, undulating as if rolling over smooth waves.
Was she on an island? Or a peninsula of sorts? The clue to her location should have grounded her, but it was really just a larger cage.
She was locked in a room on a possible island in the middle of God-knew-where.
Number 1922.
Backing away from the windows, her stomach cramped with a mixture of hunger and dread. Any consideration to eat their food vanished.
She was a rat in a cage, in whatever experiment this was. Sometimes, people wore white coats and did unethical things. To humans. To rats.
Snatching the tempting chocolate from the pillow, she threw it against the wall. “Fuck!”
She fell back and stilled, groaning in absolute frustration. “God damnit,” she snapped. “It is soft.” She punched whatever thread count this was and growled.
She had no other option but to do as she’d been told—sleep and pray to God someone would let her out in the morning.
The Becoming started at ten. That was less than twelve hours away. She needed to sleep to keep her wits about her and stay sharp for whatever came next.
Forcing her frustration aside, she climbed under the covers and tried to fall asleep. But any sense of decadence was permanently overshadowed by feelings of distrust.
She shut her eyes.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time moved strangely in this place, elastic and uncertain.
She twisted and turned, not used to such comfort. After a while, she tried lying on the floor, hoping the stiffness might remind her of home.
