Her insomnia hadn’t been this bad in eight years.
Not since Cassandra’s arrival at the Temple of Letha. Before then, Xenia had rarely enjoyed a full night of uninterrupted slumber.
Memories of the day she’d been ripped from her parents’ arms would tear her from sleep, drenched and screaming. Her father’s pleas would echo through her sleep-numbed brain, his wavering voice begging the red-jacketed Empire soldier to spare their only child.
Xenia could have asked one of her fellow Shrouded Sisters to remove the memory. But she couldn’t bring herself to lose even those last, painful moments with her parents—no matter how much they tormented her.
As soon as Cassandra and Xenia had begun sharing a room, Cassandra’s deep, measured breathing in the next bed chased Xenia’s nightmare away.
On the nights Cassandra ran her missions, Xenia’s sleep was long-coming and fitful—though she always pretended to be out cold upon Cassandra’s return. Even threw in some dramatic snores.
But there was no one in this dungeon to perform for. No one’s breath to lull Xenia to sleep.
So the nightmare came for her every night without fail.
Night, day, she wasn’t sure of the time—there were no windows through which to track the sun.
Just filthy stone walls, an even filthier stone floor, and iron bars barely wide enough to poke her head through.
She’d tried when she first woke up here. And for a single, terrifying moment, thought she’d gotten stuck. She’d ripped her ears to shreds in a frantic attempt to free herself.
She hadn’t tried that again.
If she pressed hard enough against the stone wall of her cell and angled her face just so, she could see a scarred wooden door at the end of the hallway.
The Deathstalker guards who came by twice a day to feed her entered and exited through it, so it must be the dungeon’s only access point.
Based on the distance from her cell to the door, Xenia guessed there were other cells surrounding hers, but she could tell they were empty—she couldn’t hear or smell anyone.
Torches lined the wall, providing just enough light to stave off absolute darkness. A blessing, since she was sure she would’ve gone mad by now without their quivering glow.
She was already going a little mad with only her own thoughts and feelings to keep her company: gratitude that Cassandra had escaped Maksym; hope that Tristan and Cass would come rescue her.
And gut-wrenching worry about Cael.
Xenia hadn’t seen Cael since they’d been paralyzed together on Maksym’s yacht. She didn’t dare ask her Deathstalker captors about him. She doubted they would’ve told her anything anyway. The knot in her stomach tightened with each passing day.
And based on the number of meals she’d been served—the same thing every morning and evening: a bowl of lumpy oatmeal, a glass of water, and a hunk of stale bread—she’d been in this cell for a week.
Seven days wearing the same dirty clothes, sitting and sleeping on the thin straw mattress that scratched her skin and made her bones ache, offering little protection from the cold, hard floor.
Memories of her cherished books were the only things maintaining her sanity. Those stories she’d read and loved so fervently that she could recite every word. Characters so alive, so familiar they felt like friends and family crafted from ink and paper.
To while away her dim, lonesome hours, she’d invent new adventures for them—a distracting pastime that bolstered her spirits when all she wanted to do was scream and scream into the indifferent shadows.
She was halfway through a newly imagined tale of her favorite fierce princess rescuing a handsome prince when the door at the end of the hallway opened. The Deathstalker with the scarred face—Alexei, the one whose sister Cass had killed—sauntered over to her cell.
Based on the grumbling in her stomach, she expected to see a food tray, but Alexei was empty-handed.
He wrapped his long, pale fingers around the cell bars, poking out his forked tongue, his serpentine eyes narrowed.
Xenia drew herself to standing and held her head high, mimicking both Cassandra and the fierce princess from her invented tale.
Alexei chuckled, a taunting hiss. “You can pretend to be brave all you want, little mouse, but we know you’re scared. We smell it every time we open that door.”
She wanted to ask where her food was, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
He opened her cell door with an iron key, then gestured for her to exit. “Maksym has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”
