Page 89 of Given to the Black King

“I may not use your name.”

“I know.”

“I will smell every time you become wetter. Every time fear sharpens. Every place you touch yourself to leave me a trail.”

My knees weaken.

He notices.

His palm covers my nape. Fingers only. Claws held clear.

“Last chance.”

I turn my face enough to see one dark eye.

“Count.”

His grip tightens.

Then it is gone.

“Run.”

I run.

The west stair turns tight and black beneath me. I keep one hand on the center post and take the steps too fast. My skirt catches at my knees. The wool stockings Sera ordered me to wear save my skin when I miss the last stair and hit stone.

I am up before the pain settles.

Behind me, nothing.

He is counting.

I reach the old passage and pull the door shut. It will not slow him. I do it because I need to hear it open.

The passage is unlit. Cold air moves through cracks in the outer wall. My boots strike hard enough to echo.

Fifty heartbeats. Perhaps sixty.

I drag the green ribbon along the first turning and snag one loose loop on a nail without untying it from my wrist.

At the second turn I stop.

The silence presses against my back.

I slide my fingers beneath my skirt.

One touch. Only enough to gather the heat already there.

I wipe it across the stone at shoulder height.

My face burns in the dark.

Then I hear the armory door open three floors above me.

Not slammed.

Opened.