My breath catches. I’m alone.
I don’t squander my chance.
I’ve never explored the palace alone. I head down an unfamiliar hallway, pulse hammering in my throat. All it would take is for one guard or servant to see me, and I’d return to having a chaperone.
And a very angry husband.
The stone wall is cool beneath my fingertips as I run them along its length—smooth and unremarkable. Hiding nothing.
With a frown, I turn down another hallway.
Shit.
I picked the wrong one.
Faramir stands at the end, speaking with a handful of advisers. Thank the Tides, none of them spot me before I creep back to the adjacent hallway.
“Another attack?” Faramir’s obnoxiously preening voice echoes against the stone walls. “Has my brother been made aware? Or my idiot father?”
The adviser responds, too low for me to hear.
“What about Tundrayn? Do you think they’re involved? Teaming up with the Rebellion? Wouldn’t put it past the treacherous bastards.”
I bristle. I don’t have time to be outraged, though, because Faramir’s voice grows louder. They must be walking down the hall.
Straight toward me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pad silently down the hallway, head swiveling until I spy a door. I yank it open—a supply closet—and disappear inside.
It’s dim and musty, a thin sliver of light beneath the door barely cutting through the dark. Slowly, my eyes adjust, and I inch deeper into the closet.
I hold my breath, careful not to make a sound. If Faramir catches me, I’ll lose this fragile freedom I’ve carved out, and Zev will never let me out of his sight again.
A beat passes, then another.
Silence.
He’s gone. I’m undetected.
I exhale softly and—
—the door opens.
A large figure enters, broad-shouldered and massive.
My heart stops.
The dark silhouette edges closer.
I loose a relieved breath, tension melting from my stiff shoulders.
I recognize him.
It’s my husband, and he does not look pleased.
“What are you doing in here, wife?” His voice is casual, but the undercurrent of danger swirls around its edges.
