Drip.
The sound dragged Yara out of the dark.
Each drop struck stone, steady and cruel. Her shoulders burned; her wrists screamed. Every breath stung her throat like ash. When she shifted, metal bit into her skin. The stench of damp rot and rust filled her lungs.
She opened her eyes, and the world swayed. Stone walls. Iron bars. A single guttering torch. Chains ran from her wrists to a hook above her head. She tried to lift herself and nearly blacked out from the pull on her shoulders.
Then memory hit—sharp, fast.
The kiss. The knife. Kellan's shock. The chase.
His hands at her throat.
The dark.
The door creaked open.
Light sliced across the floor, catching the smear of blood at her feet. Kellan entered, closing the door behind him. His shirt hung open, bandages blooming red beneath, posture loose but dangerous. But his eyes were alive, cold and cutting.
For a long moment, he just looked at her.
