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Striding forward, I yank the cookpot out of her hands, ignoring the filth swirled in with the stew. This might be my only chance to talk to her.

And more than that, I need to make sense of why I’m here. We could have fetched some water or food from any of the men along the way. They had plenty.

Does Alastair want me to see how he keeps and humiliates his captives? Is this another threat to cow us into a willing surrender?

But then I think of Mateo imploring me to trust him. Why would he bother? Is this a good cop, bad cop situation?

Or is this chance to talk to Heather supposed to be a kindness? So I can see that she’s unhurt—physically, at least?

If that’s their intention, they miscalculated badly.

Actions speak so much louder than words.

Heather glares at me as I take the cookpot from her, and my next smile for her is full of teeth.

“Would you have some bowls? I think Bane is hungry,” I prompt, and she blinks, startled, looking down at the filthy stew.

Just for a moment, I see an edge of vicious humor tilt her mouth, and she nods. She heads toward a bag by the tent, and I follow.

As I bend down behind her, I ask softly, “I know you’re angry with me, but you’ve been angry with me before, and we were still able to work together.

Heather, we still want the same things—we both want the captives to be safe.

We want the civilians here to be safe. Please, just.

.. help me understand what it’s like there.

Is Alastair.. . is he really as bad as Sam?

The captives—how are they doing? Is he hurting them? He said he’d keep them?—”

Heather’s dark, incredulous laugh smashes through my words, and she yanks the bowls out of the bag.

“Is Alastair good ? Is that what you’re asking me?”

Inside the tent, the man’s giant legs uncross lazily, and Mateo briefly glances up from where he’s sitting on the felled tree before he returns to his conversation.

Or seems to, at least.

“No! He’s not good , Eden. He’s not sexy , or morally grey , or able to be saved .

He’s not. He’s done too much to ever..

.” Heather doesn’t even try to lower her voice.

It’s breaking with anger and grief. The storm in her eyes grows darker, spitting with electric intensity.

“Alastair and that sadistic freakshow over there are still handing out women to his men like they’re prizes .

And the captives who aren’t locked in with his men?

They’re slaving away in the kitchen and scrubbing floors.

None of them are safe , or free , or happy .

Alastair lied , and any moment of decency he’s ever shown is to manipulate you !

He’s the worst man who ever lived, Eden—and you were a fucking idiot to ever believe he was anything more.

” Her fingers curl into fists. “If I ever get the opportunity, I’m ripping his throat out. ”

Each word hits me with flinching finality.

He lied.

My last thread of hope spirals into the dirt. The world around me suddenly feels very distant. . . and very full of danger.

There’s no silver bullet. No way out of this mess. By starvation or in our last stand... we’re going to die.

“Do we find Alastair sexy?”

Bentley’s musing voice from the tent is so loud, so incongruously humored, that it snaps me back to myself. Mateo is standing from the log, and his limpid eyes are glacial on Heather.

He heard every word.

And he doesn’t take kindly to threats on Alastair.

“We’ll be just a moment,” I call to him, trying to keep my voice pleasant. “We... we still need water.”

Like Heather wasn’t just shouting about death and dismemberment.

I drag her over to the water bucket with the dirty dishes in it and pull her down to kneel beside me.

The bowls in her arms clatter as she drops down.

There are only three, but at this point, I don’t care that there aren’t enough.

I don’t care about anything but saying my piece and getting safely back to my brutes.

“Heather, please. I need you to use your brain. Be discreet, please. I believe you. I believe you that he’s awful, but he is infatuated with you. You can use it, if you just?—”

“Whore myself,” she sneers, and I close my eyes.

Her pride is going to be the death of her.

I grab the empty canteens beside the wooden bucket and dunk them in the water. It bubbles and slips between my fingers, like all the emotions I can’t catch right now.

How am I supposed to leave Heather behind again?

Fighting tears, I rush on in a whisper, “You need to find your moment, okay? Like we did back at the Sinners camp. Like with the soup. Please, Heather, I just need you to be safe. I won’t be there to protect you this time.

” I press my lips together before my voice can break, then add, “No matter how much you hate me, you’re my friend.

.. and I need you to keep yourself safe. Please .”

I look at Heather, and I’m surprised to see the bright, angry shine in her eyes, too.

“I don’t need your protection, Eden,” she whispers back. “You’re the reason I’m here.”

She stands with the bowls and jerks her chin at Mateo and the other Sinner.

“She can’t carry it all herself, so unless you’re planning on lifting a finger, you need to let me off my leash,” she snaps.

The woodcarver sighs, rolling his eyes. He tucks his carving away as he stands.

“I’ll take her. You’ve got the other one,” he mutters to Mateo, and Mateo nods.

I blink back my tears as they leave the camp, finishing up with the canteens. The scent of stew, richly seasoned and heady, is enough to make my stomach cramp, even despite my despair. Even knowing it’s coated in dirt.

I’d eat it anyway.

God, I’m so hungry, I’d lick it off the ground, if Mateo weren’t watching.

Misery cuts me sharply.

There’s nothing here for me to use. Only enough numbers to ice my spine—more weapons, more Sinners, more ways into our home.

Maybe that’s why I’m here, outside of defusing Bane... to see how hopeless it is.

Swallowing, I pull some twine from the pouch at my waist and thread it through the loops on the canteens so I can sling them over my shoulder. I take the mucky cookpot with me, but when I stand, I feel heavier than water or stew can account for.

“Is Soren okay?”

Caught off guard, I turn to see Bentley stepping out of the tent, stretching like a bear coming out from hibernation.

His wrists are tied together, though they’re far enough apart to maneuver a little.

His ankles are also tied, but with some more give—allowing him enough room to walk, though not to run.

Unlike Heather, he’s not anchored to anything.

Like Heather, he seems unhurt.

He desperately needs a shave, though.

When I take too long to answer, Bentley swirls one finger, gesturing for me to speak. “I’ll take that to mean he is okay, or you wouldn’t be looking me in the eye right now—but for the record, that’s information you really shouldn’t hold in suspense.”

Pulling myself from my lingering dread, I give him a weak smile and nod.

“Soren is fine, Bentley. Beau took good care of him. He’s up and walking around now.”

Bentley grins, and there’s so much relief in him as his head tips back that it lifts my mood, just slightly. For now, Soren is safe.

“Let me help you carry that,” Bentley offers, taking in my heavy load, and Mateo stands from his seat.

I glance at him uncertainly, but he seems unconcerned as Bentley takes the string of canteens from me.

They clatter together obnoxiously as he struggles to arrange it around his wrist ties with a puzzled frown.

In the end, he gives up, holding the string of them together like an awkward bundle of caught fish.

“We should go,” Mateo mutters as he walks past us, and I nod, following him silently.

As we walk back, Bentley glances down at me a few times, then at Mateo’s back. I frown, letting my steps slow a little, and Bentley matches my pace.

It’s not enough for us to fall behind, it just... creates a little distance.

Sinners swarm through the trees around us, busy with chores or weaving through the woods to peek out of the tree line and check on the meeting. Their lingering glances, their body odor as they deliberately pass close enough to brush my skin, is enough to keep me tense and watchful.

“You shouldn’t take Madison’s words too hard,” Bentley finally says, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the Sinners. “That one has a lot of feelings fighting each other right now.”

Even his whispers sound like a rumbling beehive, but I purse my lips.

“It sounded to me like her feelings were quite clear—and valid. Unless you know something I don’t?”

Bentley bends to duck under a branch.

I don’t.

But he considers my question like he’s been given a ticking bomb. A Sinner strides forward, looking over me with too much heat, and Bentley casually steps into his path, ushering me forward while he thinks.

I can’t even tell if the seamless defense was intentional or not.

“Well,” Bentley says slowly, none of his usual bravado in his voice. “There is some nuance. Shades of grey, you know? You can’t. . . How do I...?” He eyes a passing Sinner, then mutters, “Nope, can’t say that. Okay .”

He nods to himself, then leans down close to me as he walks.

Darting a worried glance around us, I listen intently as he begins to whisper.

“So, Alastair and Mateo’s men pulled all the women and children out of the Sinners rooms the night we attacked.

Hear that? They pulled them out . It was chaos inside.

Fighting. They got them all free of Sam’s men.

Put them in one place so they’d all be together.

The captives, they’re not being beaten or.

.. or bothered there, if you catch my drift. ”

Lifting the clanging canteens, Bentley scratches his beard, then nods to me to keep moving.

Reeling, I force my suddenly stalled feet to restart. Alastair did protect the captives? But... if that’s true, then why would Heather be so upset about how they’re being treated?

Mateo glances back over his shoulder, catching us whispering, but he turns back after a single searching look. If anything, his shoulders relax.

Does he want me to hear whatever Bentley is saying? Was this planned? Is Bentley being pressured to say all of this?

Or . . . is this the truth?

I frown as I walk, my eyes sightless on the mulchy leaves in front of me as I think. “So, Alastair isn’t giving the captives away to his men? As prizes ?”

Bentley winces, then tips his head thoughtfully. “Well, yes... technically , he’s?—”

“Bentley!”

My horror slams back into me in full force. Alastair is selling the women off. God, how could Bentley still defend him after that? Shades of grey, my ass. And he all but called Madison emotional .

Damn it.

He’s supposed to be one of the good ones.

The tree line where Mateo and I entered comes into view, and Mateo turns toward it.

I dodge another Sinner, then lower my voice. I hate that it sounds like I’m begging. “So, Heather isn’t lying or exaggerating? It’s not that she has it wrong? Are the captives being treated like servants, too?”

Bentley gives me a torn, guilty look. “I mean, no, not like servants.”

I breathe out in relief.

Okay. Okay, at least there’s that.

“Servants, historically, get paid for that kind of...”

Catching my sick expression, he trails off.

They’re everything I feared they were.

Mateo breaches the tree line, and we follow more slowly. Bentley’s dragging feet don’t seem to have anything to do with his ropes.

“Look, Eden, just... just forget that for a minute. I wouldn’t take risks with this. I?—”

Another Sinner comes up beside us, just a few feet away, heading for the tree line, and Bentley closes his mouth, eyeing the Sinner sideways.

The large man sighs, seeming frustrated.

“It’s complicated, Eden,” he says, his voice as close to a whisper as I think he can get. “With everyone here. With you. Just be careful. People aren’t always what they seem to be.”

Watching Mateo’s back, bitterness clogs my throat. “I’m aware.”

“Good.”

Bentley tugs at my shirt, just before I step out from the trees, and reluctantly, I stop.

He slips a small, folded piece of paper into my pocket... and his eyes meet mine.

“Then make sure you’re looking beyond the surface.”

I look down at my pocket as Bentley pushes through the trees, and when the Sinner pauses to eye me, I follow Bentley with a quicker step.

My fingers touch the folded paper in my pocket like it might burn me.

I wouldn’t take risks with this.

People aren’t always what they seem to be.

Does Bentley mean himself . . . or Alastair?

Night has begun to fall over the group by the moat, and their chaos barely registers as I approach. Sullivan appears to be arguing with Bane for negotiation, Bane is making more threats. Arthur is quivering.

Heather is on her knees by Alastair’s seat, her leash wrapped tight around his wrist.

Somehow, I doubt she approved that on any limits list.

But my brutes’ desperate edginess as they catch sight of me squeezes my chest, and when Jasper draws me into his side, I lean into him with more relief than I should show.

But my thoughts are still thundering in my ears.

Bentley gave me a note.

Distantly, I hear Alastair decide that we’re at an impasse and that there’s much to think on. Distantly, I hear him order us to return at dawn tomorrow to convene another meeting.

Distantly, I notice everyone has risen from their seats.

And as I retreat back over the bridge with my brutes and Arthur, my stomach churns.

Because I suddenly have no idea what to believe.