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She does not scream.

She should.

Instead, she stares at the corpse, then at me.

“Who—” she starts, but the words fail.

I do not let her finish.

I grab her arm, hauling her from the bed. “Get up.”

She resists, confusion flickering through her features.

I grip her chin, forcing her to face me. She has to understand.

“They will come again.” My voice is sharper than I intend. “Do you hear me, little siren?”

Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

Foolish girl.

I release her, turning toward the body, my boot pressing into the assassin’s shoulder, flipping him over.

A silver insignia glints on his chest plate.

My father’s mark.

He has made his move.

A slow rage builds inside me.

I knew it was coming.

Something in my ribcage tightens as I look at her again. At the way she’s gripping the table, shoulders squared, but hands trembling.

She hides it well. But I see it.

Not fear.

Something else.

I step closer. She does not move away.

I should not be here.

I should let them come for her. Should step aside and let my father erase this mistake before it poisons me further.

But I don’t.

My hold on my blade tightens. “We’re leaving.”

She tenses. “Leaving?”

I turn, moving toward the bookshelf. Fingers press against the hidden latch. A mechanism shifts. The stone wall shudders.

The passage opens.

Her eyes widen.