A male didn’t kiss with such fervor, didn’t do thoseother thingsCael had done to her, if his feelings weren’t genuine. And strong. She’d been fooled once before. But she wasn’t fooled byhim. Not for a second. Not even when he’d left Ohan’s ship, stubbornly insisting she was safer without him.
A soft ding sounded, breaking her reverie, and the middle set of doors opened.
Though she’d never ridden in an elevator—such things didn’t exist in the colonies—she had a passing knowledge of how they worked, having studied Fae technology in the Temple library. She pressed the button for the twenty-fifth floor.
The glowing numbers ticked upwards, and her stomach dipped.
Fifteen.
Eighteen.
Twenty-two.
By the time they approached twenty-five, Xenia was vibrating with excitement. She’d made it. She’d gotten her meeting with Ohan. Soon, she’d be on a train to Brachos, she’d find Cael, and he’d be so touched that he’d?—
The elevator doors slid apart and Xenia’s excitement fizzled.
The male who stood in the hallway was not Ohan Stolia, the yak Beastrunner with the jovial laugh and avuncular manners.
This male had short platinum hair, a ruddy complexion, and a face that had been recently added to Xenia’s all-too-frequent nightmares.
The fox bi-form who’d attempted to buy her from Cael last week.
She smashed the buttons in an attempt to re-close the doors, but it was too late. The Beastrunner snatched her arm with supernatural speed and yanked her into the hallway.
He pinned her arms, crushing her against his chest as a wicked smile transformed his vulpine features into something truly terrifying. “Hello again, pretty blonde pet.”
Before she could scream, he crushed a wet rag over her mouth.
She kicked and flailed as he dragged her down the sterile hallway, her soles squeaking against the tiles as the overhead lights screamed their insectile buzz.
The bitter-scented liquid on the rag cocooned her mind in a cottony haze, and the Beastrunner whispered into her ear.
“Your Vestian should have taken my original offer.”
CHAPTER THREE
Seven days. Lift.Three hours.Stretch.Forty-two minutes.Lower.
Thwap.
Cassandra Fortin held her wings out and slammed a fist into the hanging bag, rattling its chain.
Seven days. Lift.Three hours. Stretch.Forty-three minutes. Lower.
Thwap.
Time was a funny thing. As a mortal woman, she’d had an ever-present awareness of its scarcity. As if life itself were a leaky bucket, another second lost with every drop.
But even now, in her newly immortal body, the seconds didn’t feel any less precious.
Every moment she spent in this intake tower was a moment further away from Xenia. Further away from Mama. Further away from Borea and the Shrouded Sisters and everyone and everything Cassandra had ever cared about.
Further away from Tristan.
Seven days, three hours, and forty-four minutes, to be precise.
Perhaps that was why she hadn’t yet gotten used to her endless supply of time. Until the Emperor came to deliver her sentence, how could she know how much she had left?
