She needs me and I can’t reach her.
The thought is a knife twisting in my chest. Three years of torture, three years of wanting to die, and none of it comes close to this agony. This helpless fury at being so close to her but unable to offereven the smallest comfort.
I press my palm flat against the wall, imagining I can somehow transfer strength through the stone. Willing her to feel that she’s not alone, that someone is here, someone cares, someone would tear this entire place apart with his bare hands if it meant keeping her safe.
So I keep working. She deserves more than the press of a finger to comfort her after her beating.
And gods know, so do I.
The stone wall between us has stood for decades, maybe centuries. It wasn’t meant to be broken by bare hands. But I’ve been working this same spot every time they rotate me back to this cell. This is my third time here, and each rotation I’ve managed to widen the hole just a little more.
Before, carving at the stone was just something to do—an act of defiance against the nothing. Something to focus on instead of losing my mind to silence and silver. I knew I’d never get out. Knew even if I broke through, it would just mean trading one cage for another. One cell for the next. Still trapped. Still alone.
But now?
My fingers are bloody, nails torn down to the quick, but I don’t stop. If anything, I work faster. Because now she’s here.
Now I wantin.
I want to be in her cell. The hole isn’t a mindless rebellion anymore. I carve because I need to reach her. She’s my escape.
Lithia
Her breathing shifts—a sucked-in breath as if she’s in pain.
She’s waking.
The edges of the hole are jagged, slicing into my palms as I pry at the weakest points. I don’t care. Pain is meaningless compared to the need to reach her.
“Lithia? Are you awake?”
No response. Just another pained intake of breath.
A piece of stone breaks away, cutting my wrist deeply as itfalls. I ignore it, reaching through the now-larger opening. It’s still not big enough for more than my hand, but it’s something.
I should have warned Lithia about the fear-seer and what would happen when those pale eyes looked into hers. But I didn’t think they’d bring Prudence so soon. They usually start with physical pain, wait until the prisoner is weak before hitting them with the psychological torture.
Lithia’s either very valuable or very dangerous. Or maybe she’s both.
I curse under my breath, redoubling my efforts. The silver in my system makes my wolf weak, my strength a fraction of what it should be. But desperation fuels me now, fueling whatever strength I have remaining.
Lithia.
I break through, pulling stone from the hole and clearing the dusty rubble as best I can. I hide it as I’ve always done in the waste bucket. The woman who comes to swap them out twice a day never speaks of it, and I doubt the guards are clawing through our shit to check.
With the hole clear, I wiggle down, pressing close to the wall as I work my arm into the hole. I can fit my arm through past the elbow now, if I ignore the scratch and scrape of the sharp rock.
“Lithia?”
No response. Her breathing doesn’t change.
I push my arm through the opening as far as it will go, feeling blindly for her in the darkness. My fingertips brush against fabric—her shirt—then find her shoulder.
At the contact, she jolts awake with a sharp intake of breath, pulling away from the wall.
“It’s just me,” I say quickly. “It’s Kier. You’re safe.”
There’s a pause, then I hear her shift closer to the wall. “Kier?”
