I woke to the sound of screaming.
Not mine—though gods knew I'd done plenty of that in lifetimes past. This scream was distant, muffled by thick stone walls and heavy doors, but unmistakable in its terror. A woman's voice, high and desperate, cut short with brutal efficiency.
My eyes snapped open. Pale morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, painting the opulent chamber in shades of gold and shadow. For one disoriented moment, I didn't know where I was. Then the events of last night crashed back—the fire, the assassins, Elian's terrified face, Darius arriving like vengeance incarnate.
Elian.
I turned my head sharply, ignoring the protest from my injured shoulder. He was still there, curled against my side, his small hand fisted in the fabric of my borrowed nightgown. Someone—probably one of Darius's ever-efficient servants—had changed us both while we slept. The thought should have bothered me more than it did.
