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I keep creeping down the hallway. The lights flicker slightly as I pass, as though they’re candles I’m disturbing with my wind. I take light steps. I barely dare to breathe.

It’s odd to feel the castle so empty while hearing the bustle of people echoing down the halls. A party, but not here. Where I am, it’s just the sound of my feet echoing down the hall. The strange hollow sound of a large empty place.

And then I turn the corner—a little too close to the party for my comfort—and find a petite woman sitting on the floor, her knees to her chest, crying delicately. She’s in a stunning green dress that hugs her body, though she doesn’t have much to show off in the way of curves.

She is the kind of thin that I’ve always dreamed of being.

When she looks up at me, I realize that she’s not just thin and small—she’s gorgeous. Fine features and a dainty little button nose, an even, gentle blush over her cheeks. The kind of woman who manages to cry pretty when I’m all sobbing and snot.

Jealousy claws at my chest.

I know without asking, just from looking at her, that this is Augustus’s betrothed. Or his wife, depending on the timeline of the wedding.

And from the expression on her face, I can tell she knows who I am, too. Of course she does—she must have smelled my scent all over him, seeing him after my heat. Unless Augustus has some magic I don’t know about, he would have smelled like it.

It makes me proud. It makes me feel sorry for this woman.

I’m sure she didn’t choose this marriage. And I’m sure she didn’t want her fiancée coming back to her smelling like another woman, as societally expected as it is.

“I’m not angry with you,” she says, clearing her throat and looking away. “In case that’s what you were thinking. I just…this isn’t what I thought my life would be like.”

I stare at her. “And what if I’m angry at you?”

She turns and looks at me again sharply, her eyes widening as though she hadn’t even considered that as an option. As though she would actually care if it was true. God, what kind of tortured woman would care even what a complete stranger thinks of her?

“I’m not,” I clarify, giving her an amused look and shifting to my other foot. “Mylah, by the way.”

“Noemi,” she says, then sweeps her gaze over my ensemble. A confused expression crosses her face. “Where are you going?”

I could lie. Does she even know that I’ve been locked up here, that I’m an escaping prisoner right now? Does Augustus’s wife or fiancée know that he’s had me shut up in a room this entire time?

“I’m escaping,” I say, deciding to tell her the truth. If she was going to call for the guards, maybe she would have done it already.

“Escaping,” she repeats, blinking at me again, as though this is another thought that’s never crossed her mind.

“Yes.”

“You remind me of Aurora,” she laughs after a second, shaking her head slightly again. “I’ve only met her a few times. I don’t think she liked me very much.” A breath. “I bet she’s trying to escape right now, too.”

Something in my neck twitches, muscles getting tight. “What do you mean? That she’s trying to escape? Escape from what?”

Noemi stares at me, lips pressed together in uncertainty. Clearly, she’s realizing that this might have been privileged information. That I didn’t know.

Of course I didn’t know. Throughout this week, I thought Aurora was done with me. That maybe she thought I called her brother at the clinic and got the two of us in trouble. In a way, it’s true. I did call him, just not in any tangible way.

The way that I’ve been calling out for him since the night I met him.

“Augustus was mad at her for something,” Noemi says, her voice just barely higher than a whisper. “He didn’t tell me, but I heard the guards talking about it. She’s been stuck in her room, too.”

I’m already turning on my heel, already heading in the direction of Aurora’s room. I had no idea that she was trapped.

And if I’m escaping, I’m not leaving without her.

Chapter 32 - Augustus

“…and it’s so interesting to see how you all adapted to the cold up here! I could never do it; I tell you—”

I nod and smile and try not to peel off my own eyelids, and I speak with what feels like the hundredth diplomat. He’s tall, tan, and from some small pack to the east that I’ve never cared to look up before. With each word he says, the headache brewing in my head throbs, right behind my right eye.