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Anger flashes through me. “You brought it up to torture me, then?”

“Something like that, yeah.” She lifts one shoulder. “The alpha forbade me from physically harming you. Isn’t he kind? He left me a lot of wiggle room.”

My skin crawls, and I glance around the room again. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s a cute kitchen. If I didn’t know it belonged to wolf shifters, I might even feel at home here. I drum my nails on the table and try to picture it owned by anyone else. Like my mother.

We couldn’t scry her… perhaps it’s because she’s in the shadow realm?

A chill sweeps up my spine.

I’ve never heard of anyone going into the shadow realm. Witches summon and banish demons, if the coven is powerful enough. And sometimes demons tear their own way through the divide between the realms. The wolf shifters take care of those.

There should be stories about demons taking prisoners back to their realm—but there’s not. I think back on all the bedtime stories—the warnings that masqueraded as lullabies—my mother told me, perched on the end of my mattress or snuggled in beside me.

Did she ever mention it? Did she see this happening?

Jessamine still watches me, and her disgust is making me nauseated.

I guess I got lucky, growing up with my mother. We dealt very little with outside people, and biases, and hatred. To be confronted with it so suddenly, so viciously, is hard to swallow.

I haven’t done anything to her, and she’d rather kill me than let me exist.

I push myself up, and the chair squeals. My back protests, but I ignore it. Jessamine’s gaze follows me as I storm toward the stairs. Thankfully, she doesn’t follow.

I only go back to Kian’s room to get the food. Then I step out into the hallway and check the remaining rooms. I pick the one farthest from him and close the door behind me. It’s got a bed, a dresser. Two windows facing… well, I don’t know what direction they’re facing. Maybe south, if I had to guess. The bed is made with a plaid blanket, the sheets folded back, and four fluffed-up white pillows. Why did he give me his room in the first place? He could’ve put me in here. There’s too much… muchness in that gesture.

The fact that it might mean anything at all spins my head around.

I take a seat on the floor, leaning back against the bed. I can’t tell if I’m nauseous from my situation or from hunger. I set the food down beside me and allow my thoughts to stray to the Winter Wolf.

Kian as a man is cold. Intimidating.

His wolf is even worse.

If I could escape, I would. But if I run, I’d be dead in minutes. Wolves like to chase. Hunt. It’s ingrained in them. It could even be an accident. One little swipe, and I’d be gone.

I can’t give Kian that satisfaction. But there must be some other way…

I force myself to finish the food—a surprisingly good chicken and broccoli casserole. It doesn’t make me feel better, but I don’t feel worse. In the bathroom, I clean the bowl and fill it with fresh water. My scrying has a very low success rate, but my motivation is higher than ever.

Maybe…

When my mother and I practiced, she’d hide in the woods and instruct me to look for her in the scrying glass. She wanted me to find her that way, or to describe what was around her. But there was no danger in that. No pressing need, beyond my frustration.

Now, I’m desperate.

I put my hands on either side of the bowl and concentrate on it. The surface trembles, then goes completely still. It darkens until I see only a reflection of my face.

I focus on my mother. Her smile, the sound of her voice, her smell.

The face shifts. Changes. The Mark disappears, and the angles of the face sharpen.

Holy shit, it’s working.

My mother stares straight ahead. Her arms are bound behind her back in chains, her hair loose. The outfit she wears is torn, hanging from her shoulders in tatters. Shadows move behind her, around her. They wind up her limbs, but she doesn’t seem to notice. There’s a cut on her chest. Blood stains her front, drenching her shirt.

Pain lances through me.

I cry out.