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Her head flipped on the pillows, her eyes seeking out the moonlight. The curtains weren’t drawn, so why only slivers?
Slats—shutters. The windows in her bedroom didn’t have shutters.
Where was she?
Her head weighing a thousand stones, she rolled to her side, lifting herself upright. The tips of her boots touched the floorboards. Why was she wearing boots in bed?
With a heave upward, she gained her feet and staggered toward the glowing coals in the fireplace. Onto her knees, and her fingers stumbled in the darkness until she found a chunk of wood sitting beside the fireplace on the marble hearth. She lifted it, pushing the edge of it into the glowing coals. The last thing the air in the room needed was more heat, but she couldn’t see a thing.
The bark of the wood quickly caught flame and with the light she looked around at her surroundings. A bedroom—pretty with light colors decorating the room. White walls. Peach and rose-colored fabrics. A sturdy chest of drawers along the wall by the windows. A tester bed with thin, graceful lines. A plump wingback chair by the fireplace two feet away from her.
She was lucky she didn’t stub her toe on the chair in the darkness.
Her eyes closed for a moment as her chin dipped to her chest.
She recognized this room. The room from her dream.
She sank backward, landing with a thud on her backside as her eyes opened.
The dream—not a dream. Reality. The man. The man that had been in this room demanding things from her—real. What had he demanded?
Her mind raced back hours.
Her name.
He wanted to know her name.
And she wanted to know where she was.
She’d been at Vinehill, safe in her bedroom, and now she was here. How could that be?
The man had told her—what was this place? Wolfbridge? A castle?
Her gut sank.
He was holding her captive in this room. He’d said so himself.
Why?
Who in the bloody hell did he think he was?
Her hand went to her forehead, rubbing it, trying to coax memories forward.
Reiner. He’d said his name was Reiner. And he wanted to know something from her. He wanted to know who she worked for. What she was doing there.
Surely she was still caught in a dream.
Her right hand dropped from her forehead and she went to pinch her left arm. Soft leather caught under her fingertips.
She looked down. Why would she be wearing a long kidskin glove so far up her left arm? That did nothing to help abate the heat in the room.
Flummoxed, she peeled the leather down her arm and off her hand.
She saw it instantly, but didn’t recognize what it was.
Only that it was horrifying.
Her left hand shaking, she lifted it to the light of the fire to find strings of thick white skin wrapping, twisting around her forearm. The skin between it bright pink. Scars. Grotesque.
