She was below something. A house, a warehouse, a stable. Somewhere a carriage could arrive and leave without notice.
Her gaze swept the room again. Crates stacked unevenly. A broken chair. A length of rope thrown aside. A half-used lantern resting on a barrel. The door was iron-banded wood.
Footsteps passed overhead. Heavy. Measured.
Not Fenwick.
Fenwick moved like a man who expected the world to scatter for him. Sharp. Restless. These steps belonged to hired men.
Good.
She could work with fools.
The lock clicked.
Lila stilled her breath.
The door creaked open. A man ducked beneath the frame, torch in hand. He wore a coarse jacket, a scar tracing his jaw, and a blunt expression that suggested he had never entertained an original thought.
He looked her over. “You’re awake.”
“I am.” Her voice was even. “Unfortunately for you.”
He blinked, a small, perfect crack in his armor. “Fenwick’ll want you quiet,” he said. “Best keep still.”
“I’ve never in my life kept still,” she murmured. “Ask anyone.”
He stepped farther into the room.
Too far.
He should never have closed the distance when her legs were free.
She rose fast. Dizziness washed over her, but she refused to let it break her momentum. She kicked the torch from his hand. Sparks scattered across the stone.
He cursed and lunged.
She dodged left.
He grabbed her sleeve.
She twisted her arm, driving her elbow into his ribs. Not enough force to drop him, but enough to stagger him.
He swore again, louder.
And that, precisely that, was what she needed.
Marcus could follow noise. He could follow chaos. He could follow her.
“You little—” he started.
The door slammed behind him.
Another man entered. Broader. Angrier. His presence soaked the room like cold water.
Fenwick.
Of course.
