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Anthea’s laugh echoed through the room once more, a sound filled with bitterness and resentment. “What’s this? A group of comedians?” She tightened her grip on the Hand of Death.
“Thea, please.” Endreth’s hands were up, palms facing her. There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “You don’t want to do this. Please, just put it away, let’s just talk.”
She knew better than to fall for another manipulative act, a last-ditch gambit to make her comply. “Oh, but I do want to do this.” Her eyes met his, glistening with unshed tears that shone like shards of glass against her stern countenance. “And it’s Anthea. You don’t get to call me Thea, not anymore.” Her voice shook, threatening to shatter. “You lied to me . . . You . . . you used me.” Her gaze swept the room, taking in the various expressions of the males around her. “And now,” she continued, her voice regaining its cold, iron-hard resolve, “you plan to keep using me. But I’m done playing by your rules.”
“You have no—” Galodir began.
Time seemed to slow as Anthea propelled herself toward one of the large windows in the room. She had noticed it earlier—no one guarded this window. She was dimly aware of Eldrion lunging at her, his hand reaching out in an attempt to grab her. But he was too slow—the distance she needed to cross was too small for him to have an advantage. His fingers merely brushed her shoulder, a fleeting contact that sent an icy jolt of fear through her.
Anthea spun around, the Hand of Death thrust out in front of her. Her eyes met Eldrion’s. The artifact, dark and grotesque, indeed held some formidable power; it hummed under her fingertips; she saw the way it made the warrior in front of her hesitate. “Stay back!” she cried. Beldor too, had moved closer, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and apprehension. Her other hand, still bound in bandages, reached for the latch of the window. Pain flared in her injured wrist, hot and demanding, as she forced the window open. A gust of wind and rain blew in, tousling her hair, soaking her dress on her back. From the corner of her eye, way down below, Anthea saw the sprawling gardens of the castle. It was a steep drop. She stepped on the edge, her back to the open space, the skeletal hand still clutched in front of her?—
The realization dawned on the males’ faces one by one, their eyes going from her to the cursed hand, and then to the sheer drop beyond the open window.
She swallowed, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. If freedom demanded the price of her life, she was ready to pay it. Endreth had lied, they had no intentions of helping her get back home. If there even was a way for her to get back—she couldn’t do it alone. She would never see her sisters again.
“I will not be your tool,” she whispered—her anger was gone now, replaced with quiet acceptance.
Endreth moved first, taking a step toward her. “Anthea, please,” he too whispered. The sheer desperation in his gaze, for a moment, made her heart twist in her chest. She wanted so much to believe him, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t be fooled twice.
Eldrion and Beldor were ready, their bodies coiled, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Their attention laser-focused on her.
“Anthea, let’s not act rashly,” Aegonar urged. But beneath the calm veneer, there was worry. Even he couldn’t hide it now. No doubt, the Crimson heir was worried they would lose their tool, their pawn, their thief.
“You’re not going to jump, girl.”
“You have no idea what I’m going to do, Galodir.” There it was again—the anger.
“You can trust me, Thea. Please do not do this.”
The audacity.
In a swift, fluid motion, she hurled the skeletal hand in Endreth’s general direction. Without waiting to confirm if it had hit its target, She let go, launching herself into the yawning abyss of the stormy night.
Eldrion lunged at her, his fingers grasping the hem of her dress. His grip was just strong enough to momentarily halt her downward plunge.
The ground loomed far below—it was so far.
Hanging in the heavy rain, she clutched the fabric of her soaked dress as she gazed into the foreboding darkness beneath her. She needed to do it now.
“Anthea, stop!” Eldrion growled as he fought to retain his hold on her, but his hands were getting slippery.
With a determined clenching of her jaw, she yanked at her dress. The fabric, already stretched taut under the strain, ripped easily.
The warrior grunted above her, the sudden release of weight causing his grip to falter.
Her heartbeat was the only sound she could discern as she fell, the ground surging up to meet her.
For a moment, her mind was consumed with the terrifying thought—this was it—the final embrace of the unforgiving earth.
Then the terror took hold, an icy grip around her heart. She hadn’t wished for death—she had only wanted to escape. A chilling fear washed over her as the ground loomed closer.
She didn’t want to die.
30
A breathless gasp that echoed the shock going through her tore from her mouth as Anthea felt something collide with her mid-air.
Crushing grip of strong arms ensnared her. And then?—
