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Her eyes flicked to his face. It was obscured by the shadows of his leather hood, the intensity of his gaze was impossible to miss. He was studying her, his eyes, a shade of gray that mirrored the overcast skies of a brewing storm, were sharp and penetrating, looking for cracks in her façade of innocence. He had seen her, but he didn’t know for sure, didn’t know for sure what exactly had he seen?—

“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anthea let her voice quiver. “I just . . . I just need to find my master. Please, let me go. My master . . . he won’t be pleased if I’m not there when he needs me.”

He ripped the linen bag from her grasp. Anthea’s heart plunged into a dark abyss of fear. The male opened the bag, revealing the contents inside: two tomes that held her ticket home. She watched as his fingers reached inside to graze one of them?—

A soft gasp tore from his lips as he jerked back, the warding spells lashing out at his touch, making him drop the bag. His eyes moved from the bag to her face, piecing together the puzzle with a frightening speed.

“Pick it up,” he whispered, pointing to one of the books.

An innocent slave girl wouldn’t understand the gravity of this situation, and she needed to play her part convincingly. Anthea let her lip tremble, giving into the genuine panic threatening to overtake her. Glancing down at the bag lying on the cold stone floor, she inched downward. It was difficult. He had her pinned. As she moved, she was acutely aware of her skin, her body brushing against the rough leather that covered him. He was too close. The buckles and straps of his attire snagged the crimson fabric of her dress.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, and albeit reluctantly, he released her and stepped back slightly, giving her some space.

With a small gulp, Anthea reached out and picked up the bag, opened it, and reached for one of the heavy tomes. Its cool surface, inscribed with magical symbols, sent a faint tingle up her arm, but the protective spells didn’t react. Anthea held it up for him to see.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes were fixated on her face and not on the book in her hands.

He wasn’t surprised.

He wasn’t surprised.

Which meant that . . . he had expected it to not hurt her.

He knew.

There was no denying it?—

Anthea swung the tome in an arc.

His eyes widened in surprise just a fraction too late.

The book crashed into his jaw and a flare of magic burst forth as the wards reacted. He reeled back, grunting. The sound rumbled in his throat, his tall figure momentarily convulsing.

Spinning around, her crimson dress billowing out like a flame, Anthea ran, the twin slits giving her the freedom she needed for this mad dash. Her bare feet smacked against the cold floor as the halls blurred around her.

She ran like she had never ran before.

One thing was crystal clear in her mind—she had to reach Endreth, had to reach the safety of their meeting spot. The metallic chill of the book seeped through her fingers as she clutched it tight.

The male was larger, probably faster—it would only be a matter of heartbeats before he would shake off the pain and follow.

Seeing the golden griffin, Anthea whipped around a corner. She looked up—the turquoise ceiling. Only a little bit more, just a bit more.

Her breaths came out ragged, jabbing pain stabbed her side.

Only one more turn.

Then, the stone walls gave way to the expansive openness of the moonlit night.

Anthea was out—she had a chance.

Her fear blossomed into full-blown terror as she heard the footsteps behind her. He’d recovered even quicker than she’d expected?—

Her breath caught in her throat as she forced her weary body into a last desperate sprint, coaxing her legs to move faster.

Even faster.