Page 25 of The Hood and his Thief

Despite her best efforts, Rhosyn’s attention soon drifted to the soft pillow under her head. It sucked her in with unusual gravity, lulling her into abandoning her plans of escape for the time being. Sleep sang its siren song, more alluring than ever, even after a full day of unconsciousness.

Maybe the drugs Ansel’s ally had used on her were inordinately strong. Or maybe, tied down with nobody to punch and no fight to pick, Rhosyn gave into rest.

A door slamming jerked Rhosyn awake hard enough that she nearly gave herself whiplash trying to jump to her feet, before remembering her bonds. As it was, her head snapped forward to see the figure who had made the sudden noise.

A man, so wide and muscular Rhosyn was surprised he fit through the door, stood at the foot of the bed frowning at her. Every thought she had of clever things to say to her captors flew from her mind as she took in the sheer mass of him.

“Where’d the H—Ansel—dig up a lower city bruiser like you?” The words tumbled out of her mouth without a thought.

The man’s wide-set features crumpled into a frown. “I’m not from London.”

Rhosyn blinked, but her visitor didn’t offer any more information. She looked him up and down curiously once more, when her gaze snagged on a cup of water, dwarfed in his meaty paws. Automatically, she tried to swallow around the incredible dryness in her throat, after so much rest and nothing to drink. The sight of water drew unavoidable awareness to the feeling in her mouth of having swallowed a fistful of sand.

“Is that for me?” Rhosyn asked, trying and failing to nod at the water with her neck crooked at such a tight angle.

The man nodded, but stepped forward hesitantly, as if Rhosyn were the one that looked like she crushed boulders with her biceps to pass the time.

Impatient, Rhosyn snapped, “I don’t bite.”

“The teeth marks on Ansel’s hand say otherwise.”

Rhosyn grimaced. “I try not to bite the hands that feed me,” she corrected.

He resumed his approach, still slowly, and Rhosyn watched him carefully. While the bulk of his frame was clearly composed of muscle, he didn’t carry himself with the grace of a fighter. Not to mention, size wasn’t everything in a scrap. The hardest fight Rhosyn had ever had was against Scarlett, who didn’t even make it to her chin.

Maybe Rhosyn shouldn’t try to emulate Contessa or Scarlett’s skills to escape.

Maybe she should just be Rhosyn, and let the chips fall where they may.

She kept her eyes trained on the liquid sloshing in the cup as her captor leaned in, trying to appear completely distracted by her thirst. He put his hand behind her head to help her tip forward to drink, the move so polite that Rhosyn nearly felt bad for what she was about to do.

The moment he bent over to tip the water into her mouth, she snapped forward, slamming her forehead into his nose.

The world went white as the man let out a loud curse. A shattering crash split the air as the cup of water fell to the floor, but Rhosyn couldn’t feel any satisfaction at landing a solid blow. She was too busy blinking stars from her vision and wondering if it was possible to scramble your brains in your skull.

As her sight cleared, she was incredulous to find that the man looked relatively unfazed, thick fingers wiping the tiniest dribble of blood from his nose and upper lip. Rhosyn had used her face as a weapon more than was strictly advisable in her life, and in her experience that should have shattered her opponent’s nose. Instead, she was left reeling, while he only seemed mildly annoyed.

She would have to stop teasing Contessa about breaking her own nose in an ill-advised headbutt after this.

Before Rhosyn or her visitor could do more than take a quick stock of her injuries, the door slammed open once more.

“I see you’ve taken the liberty of introducing yourself to Little John, Rhosyn,” Ansel observed as he took in the chaotic scene before him.

“… don’t know why you’re insisting on keeping her,” the man, who must be Little John, grumbled under his breath.

Ansel ignored his comment and Rhosyn tried to wrap her head around him referring to this giant as “little”.

“Go wash your face. I’ll handle this,” Ansel instructed. A few heavy footsteps and a creak of the door on its hinges, and they were alone in the room.

Rhosyn tried to scowl but was pretty sure she ruined it with eyes still crossed from the blow to her head. She didn’t regret it though. If Ansel insisted on holding an officer of the Royal Police captive, she wasn’t inclined to make it easy for him.

“I was trying to convince Little John that we could at least untie your feet, but you seem determined to undermine me at every turn.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he stared down at her with the look of a man assessing the broken wheel on his carriage.

“Being tied down doesn’t induce me to act quiet and polite,” Rhosyn countered.

Ansel snorted. “You would have more of a point if you hadn’t been asleep for the better part of a day.”

“Which is concerning for you, because the longer you hold me here, the worse it will be for you when Chief Throne tracks you down.”