Page 16

A toilet. A tub. And a sink with ample counter space, situated under a small window up at the top of the room. Good for privacy.

Bad for me trying to get out.

But it’s the only window in this entire place that seems to open, so it’s my only chance.

I climb onto the counter next to the sink, holding my breath with worry that the whole thing might crumple under my weight. But it’s solid, and I manage to straighten up on top of it, reaching my hands up for the window at the top of the wall.

Just barely getting my hands around the crank for the window, I stand on my tippy toes and push. Dots flash in my vision—maybe that meat stick wasn’t enough. I didn’t get breakfast this morning.

Maybe they’re trying to starve me out.

That’s just more motivation, and I spend the next ten minutes pushing and heaving against the crank, slowly, painstakingly getting the thing open. Of course, an icy winter blast pushes into the bathroom the second there’s a crack for it to slither in through. It just makes my fingers more stiff, which makes it harder to get it open.

But there’s no going back now—now that the cold is coming in, someone is bound to notice it pushing up around the outside of the door like a walk-in freezer. The explanation for why it would be so cold in here would be pretty obvious.

Once I have the window open, I’m breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead despite the temperature. I step back, admiring my progress and ignoring the intense worry I feel that I am not going to make it through that window.

In fact, there’s no way I’m going to make it through that window. It’s barely a foot of space. A woman half my size, maybe—a skinny woman without my hips—could make it through. The more I stare at it, the more dejected I become.

Once more, I hear my father’s voice in my head. Accept the things you can’t change, Mylah.

No. I can’t.

Lowering myself down from the counter and ignoring how cold it is in here now, I turn in a circle, telling myself that there has to be a way out of here. There has to be.

There’s a way out, and I’m going to find it.

And it’s at that precise moment that my eyes snag on a ceiling panel, just above the tub. It’s a little awkward, but I could probably dislodge it. And if I can get it off there, I could drag that armchair in here, put it in the tub, and use it to get in.

I have no idea what it is—some sort of access panel? Maybe for maintenance? But right now, it looks like my next objective. I need to move that panel and see if I can get out that way.

Opening the shower curtain, I step up so my foot is on the edge of the tub. It digs into the soft part a bit, but I ignore the stinging as I push up onto the other foot as well, sliding along the side of the tub and toward the panel in the ceiling.

A single hand on the wall helps me keep my balance. I reach for the panel, straining to reach the corner. If I were just a little taller—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Yelping, I lose all semblance of rational thought and flail, flying backward. My feet slip off the edge of the tub. For a split second, I fall through the air before landing on something warm, strong, unyielding. Arms come around me, tightening and hauling me back against his chest.

That scent, so heady. Like sinking down into a vat of thick, bubbling caramel. Candied orange peel. Warm, citrus cinnamon buns straight out of the oven.

Fuck.

For some reason, I had managed to talk myself into believing that he wouldn’t be the one to come. I’d talked myself into believing that it would be a different guard, bringing me food or barging in to ask why the hell it’s so cold in here.

But no. Of course not. My divine luck—or, rather, unluckiness—means that it has to be him.

I want to scream, to push against him and call him every name under the sun. Curse him for not recognizing me. For being a false mate to me.

He’s actually not done anything wrong to me, though. In fact, all he’s really done up to this point is save me from being a sacrifice.

“Mylah.” The sound of my name on his tongue is a blow to the part of my brain desperately keeping the heat at bay. “What are you doing?”

His voice is a rumble that travels from his chest to mine. I realize that, although I am most definitely done falling at this point, I am still wrapped up in his arms as though he needs to keep me safe.

Letting out an annoyed breath—acting, entirely—I twist away from him and push, so he stumbles back. I know he only stumbles because he’s surprised, and not because I’m actually strong enough to affect him, but it feels good, nonetheless.

Pushing the hair out of my face, I summon all the pain and ire and hurt of the years past and glare at him. I think of every heat I was left on my own, all the writhing and sweating and pleading for him to come and put me out of my misery.