Page 9

Quentin’s eyes are wide in shock and fear. “Y–You—”

“Traitor,” the shifter says, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Quentin goes pale. “H–How is this possible?”

“Traitor,” the naked man repeats before thrusting his free hand into Quentin’s chest. I watch him yank out his still-beating heart, his arm now covered in blood. The large shifter gurgles blood before being released and slumping to the ground.

He’s dead.

My own heart pounding, I slowly turn my head to gawk at the silver-haired shifter. He’s not looking at me but down at the dead body. He drops the heart on the ground, and then finally, his eyes meet mine.

I open my mouth to beg him not to kill me, but when he looks at me, I feel a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach—a feeling of knowing, a warmth that I’ve never felt before.

Time stands still as we gaze at each other, this undeniable connection rattling me to my very core. My heart is quivering inside my chest, and I try to keep my wits about me. This isn’tthe time to be hallucinating. I swallow, silently telling myself to get a grip.

“We have to get out of here.” Why does my voice sound so husky?

He approaches me, and I immediately gesture with my hands. “I’m not the enemy. I’ve been trying to help you.”

He doesn’t stop. I close my eyes in fear only to feel his hot breath on my forehead. When I risk looking up at him, I see him sniffing my head wounds.

“You are hurt.”

The gravelly texture of his voice makes me realize it’s hard for him to speak. I look around, but there’s no water. I gave the last bottle to him hours ago.

“Look, we have to get out of here. They are twenty guards outside this place. I don’t know where ‘outside’ is, but I know the way in. I memorized the steps.”

I’m babbling now, and he watches me intently.

His eyes turn toward the open cell door, and he begins walking in that direction. I take a few steps, but my head is spinning and I stagger. I start to fall, but before I hit the ground, he catches me with an arm around my waist. His eyes hold mine, and I feel the same stab of attraction, one that has no place in our current situation.

I think Quentin hit me too hard. I’ve finally gone crazy.

“Weak.”

I feel a little insulted at the naked man’s comment, but before I know it, he picks me up and hoists me onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I would protest if my injured body didn’t hurt so much. As he carries me out of the cell, I dimly wonder how he’s able to walk with such ease. However, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

A wave of nausea hits me, and I realize I have a concussion. I can’t afford to pass out right now, so I force my eyes openand say, “I know the way out of here. Not that door! Keep going straight. There’s another set of stairs, at the very end.”

It feels like I first arrived here eons ago, but as my companion carries me along, I remember the steps that Cassian took that day. Each step, each curve, each turn. I remember it all. I guide the shifter to the staircase, and I feel my head ache with every jolt as he walks up the steps. At one point, his knees nearly buckle, and my heart sinks.

“I can walk. I promise, I can. Let me down.”

He grunts and holds me tighter.

However, when we reach the top of the stairs, we run into a problem. There’s a large, iron door with no opening except a keyhole. It’s locked.

The shifter glances at me, and I mumble, “I did not anticipate this.”

He shuffles from one foot to the other before carefully lowering me to my feet. Before I can stop him, he rams his shoulder against the door.

“W–What are you doing?” I cry out in shock. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He keeps doing it.

“Stop it!” I try to hold him back, but he shakes me off. I sink weakly to the ground.

A few seconds later, I hear the door creak. And then a louder sound. He takes a few steps back and hurls himself at the door one last time. It breaks open, and he walks outside to freedom. I struggle to my feet and follow him, only for dismay to fill me.