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Confused, I hand them over, watching as she crosses her legs and starts writing. When she finishes, she tears out the page and folds it in half. “Coordinate a meeting with West End,” she says, voice low and quick with intensity, “but not with the Dukes. Take Effie, and this note, to my mother.”

“Your mother,” I ask, eyebrow arching.

Her eyes blaze into mine. “Trust me.”

I owe her that and so much more, so that’s what I do. I stick it in my pocket, and against every instinct in my body, I leave her there on the cot, curled up in the only warmth I can provide her. I don’t read the note until I’m upstairs, already wondering if Simon Perilini will take my call.

Even birds can usea mama bear sometimes. Please see that this one is loved until we’ve made a safer den for her. Show her some kindness and a window with some sunshine, and she’ll be a fast friend.

Love,

VerBear

25

Verity

I wishI could say I awoke to the feeling of another presence, but it’s the smell of food that rouses me. Before I can even lift my eyelids, a warm palm is brushing the hair off my forehead, lips capturing mine in a gentle kiss.

When my eyes open, it’s to the sight of Pace’s shadowed face. “Hey,” he whispers, tucking my hair back. “Sorry to wake you up, but it’s better when it’s warm.”

The skin on my back is still tender and itchy as I struggle to a sitting position, the wounds tight and hot. Pace helps me, cradling my elbow as I lower my feet to the cold floor. “What time is it?” I ask in a rusty voice.

“Noon,” he answers, shuffling around the small space. “Wednesday afternoon.”

I don’t need to wonder why his answer is so specific. Down here, there’s no light, no way to tell if a day has passed. Or worse, if any time has passed at all. I get this ridiculous idea to scratch tallies on the wall, but then I rememberhistallies, etched into his arm, and my stomach clenches.

The smell of food doesn’t help.

“What’s that?” I nod to the covered tray just as my stomach releases a loud, unseemly growl.

Pace balances the tray on his lap. “Lunch, prepared by Lex himself.” He lifts the lid, revealing a bowl of soup, a hard-boiled egg, and two bread rolls. “Lentil soup.” Pulling out a bottle of water, he adds, “And for dessert…” He reaches into his other pocket, producing a plastic-wrapped snack cake.

My mouth waters, but when I reach instantly for the bread, Pace inhales sharply, as if he’s about to interject. When he clamps his mouth closed, I ask, “What?” eyeing the rolls dubiously.

“Nothing,” he says, pushing the tray towards me. At my skeptical look, he sighs. “I’ve been down here a lot, so I know the ropes. Soup will get cold, but the egg can stay shelled for a couple of hours, and the bread can get you through the night, in case—” He stops, frowning at the spread of food. “Well, I doubt he’d keep dinner fromyou, right? You’re pregnant. You need to eat. Things between him and Lex are nuclear enough, and he’d never stand for it. But just… just in case. You never know.”

I stare at him in horror for a long moment. It’s like every time I talk to one of them now, they reveal some new, terrifying facet of their childhood. But when he looks at me, all I can see is the tension in his eyes. The worry.

He’s afraid, I realize, that I could go hungry.

I touch the curve of his cheek—the mottling bruise from his scuffle with Thad—and swallow past the lump in my throat as I lean over to brush a kiss there. I hear his breath stop, feeling the way he turns into the touch. His hand cradles my jaw as he holds me there, close and warm, for a long second.

When I lean back, he jerks forward, almost like he wants to stop me.

Reaching for the bowl, I nod. “Good plan.” It isn’t a good plan. In fact, it’s a fucking awful plan, and the fact that I’m rationing food inside a fucking dungeon is beginning to hit home. “Do you know how long…”

He doesn’t make me finish. “Five days.”

“Jesus.” My stomach drops. “What am I going to do down here for five days?” And then, “What did you do down here?”

His brow furls in a way that tells me he’s taking this question painfully seriously. “Some people aren’t good at being left alone with their thoughts, but I think I am. When I was little, I’d make up stories to tell Lex and Wicker when I went back up. Sometimes, I’d make friends, which—”

“Friends?”

He pulls a face, reaching up to rub his neck in an oddly bashful gesture. “Like, with bugs or mice.”

I snatch my feet up off the floor. “There aremice?”