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He stared hard at her before turning to the pretty woman kneeling at his feet. He pulled her into his lap and then met Wren’s gaze as he petted the woman’s arm. Wren blinked as she caught sight of the woman’s profile and frizzy orange hair.

Bile burned the back of her throat.

Clara, her cousin.

“Clara!” she yelled, fighting harder.

Idril licked his lips and placed a kiss on Clara’s neck. Wren’s cousin didn’t flinch. She didn’t do much of anything but stare blanky across the room. How did the dark elf have her cousin? How long had Clara been here?

“Clara?” she screamed, seething down to her very core as she was unceremoniously dragged from the banquet hall. Lord Idril’s supporters sneered at her when she passed them, their wanton and disgusting gazes still upon her. The slaves Wren passed, by contrast, merely shook their heads at her, as if telling her that her protests were pointless.

She didn’t stop struggling or hollering the entire way back to her room. It was only when she was shoved inside, the heavy door locked behind her, that she finally stopped.

Pacing across the room like a tiger draped in silk, Wren sank her fingers into her hair. How the devil had Idril gotten his hands on Clara? Was it mere chance? Or was it a power play to keep her in line?

She grabbed a vase on the nearby dresser and threw it against the far stone wall. It shattered into a million little pieces but it didn’t make Wren feel any better. Her stomach lurched and she stumbled to the window and emptied her belly over the ledge. Tears blurred her eyes.

Wren slammed her hands against the stone balcony and screamed as if it could block out the party below. She cried and railed against the stars until her throat went hoarse and raw. Could nothing possibly go her way? Was everyone a villain? Were there no good people left in the world?

Angrily, she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and moved deeper into the room. Her hand shaking, she poured herself a drink. Water sloshed over the edge as she took deep gulps to soothe her parched throat.

How could her aunt accept anything from Idril?

Wren slammed the goblet down on the side table and began pacing the room once more.

It was large and sumptuously furnished—a four-poster bed, ornately carved stone fireplace, tapestries woven in fine, expensive threads, a long velvet couch made for lounging and sleeping, and lush carpets that absorbed Wren’s every barefooted step—but it felt more like a prison than the Verlantian dungeon ever had.

At least in the dungeon there was a way out, even if it meant risking almost certain death.

Her gaze darted to the window. Getting down would pose a challenge. She was four stories up. Even if she was to tear up the bed and braid it into a rope, it wouldn’t reach the ground.

The night breeze blew through the window and she shivered, goosebumps breaking out across her arms. Wren scowled at her dress. It did nothing to keep her warm. Panic began to claw its way up her throat as she swore the jewelry around her neck tightened.

Wren tore the necklaces from her throat and the bangles from her wrists and ankles, tossing them onto the bed. Next, she yanked off the dress and slip and kicked them into the corner like rags. She reached for her ears, but something stopped her from removing the Dragon Isle diamond earrings. A sense that theyshouldbe hers perhaps. They could come in handy if she ran.

Not without Clara.

Only once Wren had donned the clothes she’d ransacked from Gunn’s ship did she feel more like herself. Men’s clothes, but Wren had often worn men’s clothes back in Lorne. She liked the feeling of the soft linen shirt and trousers. She liked them even more when she laced on a pair of boots as if she meant to kick the door down and run away.

But therewasno running from this room. It was impenetrable—Wren had already scoped it out. Vienne had been smart enough to confiscate her sword, bow, and quiver when they arrived at Lord Idril’s castle, and she’d lost a dagger to the trap in the forest, so she could not fight her way out.

Even so, she still had onedagger left. She moved to the door and knelt, running her fingers over the lock. There was no way she’d be able to pick it. She climbed to her feet and walked to the other side of the room. The broken vase crunched beneath her boots, and she picked up a large piece that fit nicely in her hand.

Two weapons now.

She wished Lord Idril would materialize at her door so she could strike the blackguard down. The prince would want him to die.

For once, you’d agree on something.

It was bound to happen at some point, but it still disturbed Wren how right and honest the notion was. How was it that she knew so much about what her elvish husband wanted? What he believed in? And why was it that what he wanted and what Wren wanted kept aligning?

“Stop thinking about him,” Wren berated herself, still pacing. She knew why he was on her mind so much. With nobody else to talk to, the last time she’d actually feltheardwas when she and Arrik had fought—even if she had hardly spoken a word, not wishing to give the prince more leverage against her than he already had.

She’d shied away from recounting the interaction. Shame and guilt rose each time she remembered her failure. And yet…a small part of her had felt relief in the moment the prince had captured her. The look in his eyes as he allowed her to press her knives against his back…that’s what got her. Arrik could have disabled Wren at any second and helether have the upper hand. Why had he done that? A ploy to gain her trust?

It was working and she hated herself for it.

Wren needed to talk to someone. To plan something. Todosomething about the horrible situation she had found herself in. If Vienne and Bram were going to insist on keeping Leif away from her, then Wren had to make friends elsewhere…or simply do it all herself.