I sniff the air in this tunnel, purely out of habit. I learned the smell of a Hushbite victim. Warm metal. Faint sourness. It’s asunforgettable as the smell of death. I always carried antivenom, and I wish I had my medkit now.
There won’t be Hushbite rats here. Xytheos doesn’t need them for war. They have plenty of food. Cinnamon, fruit, sun and sky.
Rythar's anti-fear oil is keeping my anxiety to a slow simmer and not the boil I expected.
I brace my forehead against the stone and force my breathing slow. I’m going to make it through this tunnel. But if I’m leaving the fortress—if I’m going into the jungle—I will not do it without my medkit.
Sophia might need it.
I slide in further, limbs shaking despite the oil stripping my fear away. My body still hums with leftover heat from Rythar’s mouth on my skin, from the way his hands could have roamed over me but didn’t. I try to forget it. Every inch I put between him and me should feel like freedom, but it’s not enough.
I shove until the edges of the far hatch open. I scoot through and roll to my knees, listening. There’s nothing. The air is cool and dry compared to the humid chamber I left.
It would be best if I could pretend I belonged here. Blend in and walk out casually. I glance down at my white dress.
Blend.
Yeah.
Sure.
I move silently, darting to the wall. I expect a shrill alarm or a phalanx of guards. But as I peek around the first corner, the corridor is empty.
I edge forward to the door at the end of the corridor. I press my palm to it, praying there’s no lock. I exhale as it slides open.
I push through the next door, then another. I’m met with the same silence. There are no guards, and every room is open. Ibegin to imagine it’s not just that no one is trying to stop me. It’s that they don’t imagine I can leave. Or that I’d survive if I did.
Or maybe they’re already watching.
Maybe this corridor is empty because someone cleared it.
Maybe this is the illusion of freedom.
Maybe I’m walking exactly where they expect me to.
It doesn’t matter. This may be my last chance to run. I make it to the main corridor. It’s broader here, the ceiling arched with woven metal. A few Xythean males pass in the distance, talking softly, but their eyes avert quickly. If I can get out of here without running into anyone else?—
I rush through another door—and slam straight into a wall of alien male. It’s Ex O Drenz.
Just my luck.
“Elena Parks,” he says, and his voice is softer than I expect. “You should not be here. Rythar gave orders not to disturb you in the mating suite while he attends to other urgent matters?—”
I cut him off, pitching my voice in the way I would talk to a soldier on New Terra during an attack. Maybe running into Drenz wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. “I need help. I need my medkit. Now.”
He hesitates, his eyes searching my face for clues. I try to look desperate. It’s not hard.
“Are you harmed?” he asks, and the way his eyes flick to my neck, then down to my wrists, says he’s looking for marks.
“Rythar was rough,” I lie.
Drenz stiffens in alarm, frowning. “I will bring you to medical. They will heal you immediately.”
I have to dial the lie back. “No! I don’t want Rythar to know. He didn’t hurt me on purpose. He was just far too large. Please. I need my New Terran medical kit. Do you know where it is?”
The Ex O’s jaw tightens. “Warlord Rythar does not—” but he stops himself, recalibrates. “You are claimed. You are to be kept?—”
“—healthy for breeding,” I snap, letting my voice tremble. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Then get my medkit. Unless you want more people to know about this.”
