How to Make a Sinner Sleep

122 | lament; in another life

A young woman fled from the castle in the dead night, weaving through the sparse patrolling guards and servants who had already retired for the evening.

A young knight, dressed in assassin's gear as if he came to commit a crime under the veil of darkness, pulled her over the walls, securing a rope to her waist and his.

His hair was closely cropped and his gaze stern, fixed in unwavering loyalty.

The woman recognized the young and loyal face, and sworn allegiance to the Crown. She had made a decision, hours prior, to which of the two evils she would place her life.

In the young prince who had secluded himself in his room, locking her in the cells after she'd told the truth of Kaden Chauvet's death?

He'd slipped away with mutterings under his breath and a paleness to his face that was almost frightening.

The woman had curled her legs to her chest, waiting in that dark cell. It was damp and humid, her clothes sticking to her skin and pain flaring in her loosely treated hand.

But she lowered her head, cherry eyes bright in the darkness. She did not despair or sob; her gaze revealed no fluctuations.

The only thing on her mind was the next step.

As chances would have it, there came the stumbling young guard who unlocked her cage and ordered her to follow closely behind. She'd hesitated, even in his anger and urgency.

She was to obey the prince's orders, the guard relayed insistently, indifferent to her thoughts.

She considered her options.

With Skye in the castle, it was unlikely she'd be able to obtain all that she wanted to. She caught glimpses of the papers in his hand—they seemed to be journal entries written in fading ink.

The second option was following the young guard.

The gears of her mind whirled and when he pulled at her arm to hurry her movements, she let out a purposeful yelp of pain, her beautiful features contorting as sweat beaded her forehead.

Tears pricked at the corners of her beautiful eyes, collecting at her long eyelashes.

He flinched and seemed to finally look at her. "What—what's the matter?"

This was Reed's loyal follower, Nicola knew. They worshiped him ceaselessly. What would happen when a drop of doubt fell into the lake of trust and admiration?

It would spill over the edges and taint the entire body of water in its murkiness.

Nicola had never gone against Reed.

She turned away from him, expressed her betrayal and disappointment and fought for Kaden's sake. But she did not fight Reed.

It was unthinkable, once. And yet the woman lifted her trembling gaze, displaying every inch of fragility that society forced upon her.

"My hand," she said softly, wincing in pain.

It had begun to form an ugly, twisted and protruding bruise. The knight flinched and blinked his plain but large gaze. "That—what—where did you, what happened—"

"The prince," she whispered, but did not say which. Suddenly, she tore away despite her pain and gasped, alarm filling her terrified eyes. "You aren't taking me to him, are you? Where are you taking me?"

The guard saw the woman's terror, drawing his own associations and conclusions to her words.

He hesitated.