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CHAPTER EIGHT
When I opened my eyes, all I saw were bars above me and the fragmented glitter of light in the center of the cage’s ceiling. And I felt the softness of a blanket beneath me.
My brows knitted in confusion. How did I get back here? I’d been in a dark hall, with—
“You’re awake. Finally.”
The warm, summery voice sent a rush of adrenaline through me. I shot upright and to the side, losing my balance on the narrow divan. I started sliding off the edge.
Kolis caught me by the shoulder, his hand flat against my bare skin. “Careful.”
I jerked away from his touch, pressing into the back of the divan as I reached down beside me, my fingers scraping off nothing but the thick fur of the blanket.
Kolis knelt before me, his head tilted. “What, pray tell, were you grabbing for?”
My dagger.
Or the broken glass cock.
I’d been reaching for a weapon out of instinct and honed reflex. “I…I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” A single brow lifted.
Stomach shifting unsteadily, I eyed him from behind several strands of hair that had fallen across my face—pale hair now stained crimson.
Fuck.
The attempted escape, what I’d seen in the darkened part of the palace, and my subsequent failure came rushing back. My gaze shot to the floor behind Kolis. The shiny tile was clear of blood and gore. I looked toward the chamber beyond—
“If you’re looking for the guard you senselessly murdered with an object typically designed to bring pleasure—though I must admit that was somewhat impressive,” Kolis observed. “You will not find him.”
I stiffened, and the lingering cobwebs of sleep cleared. I focused on him. He was dressed much like before, wearing nothing more than the gold band around his biceps and loose linen pants.
“He has been removed,” the false King continued. “And the chamber was cleaned.”
Breaths coming in short, quick pants, I refocused on Kolis. “Senselessly murdered?” I winced at the hoarseness in my voice.
“What else would you call it?”
“Self-defense,” I snapped.
His cool stare flickered over my face. “Did he attack you?”
“No—”
“Did Callum strike you?”
“No, but—”
“Then how is what you did considered self-defense?” he countered.
My lips parted in disbelief. Was he seriously asking that question? “You are keeping me prisoner. I do not need to be attacked to feel threatened.”
“You’re not a prisoner.” His head straightened, sending strands of golden hair falling against his shoulder. “You’re a guest.”
“A guest?” I whispered.
“A troublesome one,” he amended in that same flat, arid tone.
