“No,” Darcy murmured. “They left in a hurry.”
Richard stepped forward first, pistol in hand, pushing the door open with slow, deliberate force. The hinges groaned somewhat, but otherwise, the warehouse remained still.
Darcy followed, his breath tight in his chest.
The place was vast—rows of abandoned crates, rotting barrels, and tattered nets hanging from rusted hooks. It smelled of mildew and stagnant water.
Then his gaze swept lower.
A chair.
Not unusual, in itself, but this one was overturned, its legs scraped against the floor as if it had been knocked aside in a struggle. Beside it, a tin cup lay on its side, a small pool of water seeping into the grooves of the wooden planks.
Darcy stilled, his eyes fixed as his mind turned on the object. The water had not yet dried.
Someone had been here. Recently.
He turned sharply, eyes scanning the dim interior. The dust in the air caught the faintest hint of dampness, stale and briny, but beneath it—something else. The scent of candle smoke, just extinguished.
Darcy exchanged a glance with Richard, who had noticed the same thing. “Someone is being kept here,” Richard murmured. “They were given water.”
Darcy’s jaw locked. “Find them.”
Elizabeth sat motionless, listening.
The storage room was dark, save for the faint glow that seeped through the gaps in the wooden slats. It might have been hours since she had last heard voices outside the door, since her exhaustion had dragged her into sleep. She was not sure anymore.
Someone had come while she slept. She knew that much. A tin cup of water had been left for her, just inside the door. But when she had woken and demanded her release—her voice sharp, her patience worn—one of the men had cursed, snatched up the cup, and thrown it out into the corridor. She had heard it clatter and roll away, spilling every precious drop.
Now, she wished she had swallowed her pride long enough to drink it.
Her mouth was dry, her head pounding dully in protest. She was hungry too, but thirst gnawed at her first, sharp and insistent. She pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to will away the ache, but it did little good.
She had to think. She had to act. Because if she did nothing, she might never leave this room at all.
Then, suddenly, a noise. Footsteps.
Her stomach twisted, and she drew back.
Had they returned?
Elizabeth surged to her feet, pressing her back against the wall, every muscle tensed. The lock rattled—sharper, more forceful than before. Her heart slammed against her ribs as it sounded like someone was working the lock with a key.
She braced herself.
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a violent crack. A tall figure filled the threshold, his coat disheveled, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
For one terrible moment, her mind refused to make sense of what she was seeing. Her vision swam. She gripped the wall behind her, every instinct screaming at her to fight, to run—
Then—
“Elizabeth!”
The voice, rough with exhaustion, familiar as her own thoughts.
Her knees buckled.
Darcy.
