her dress a flimsy barrier against the sudden, bone-deep chill that had nothing to do wi

was no closet to search, no dresser to open, no bed to collapse onto. Just

he hall. The same room Arthur had called hers. The same room she had just esca

eath c

her things from Dereck

ppeared down the corridor. No one knocked. No one ask

e had thrown out e

ll handbag she'd carried with her: her phone, her wallet with its twenty-seven dollars, and a small, hand-stitched sachet filled with a blend of herbs she'd m

gilded cage, with nothing b

wisted with rage. She heard the sound of her dress tearing. She curled up on t

en the first sound came from

, inhuman sound of pure agony.

ht on the settee, her

ll. Followed by a heavy thud, as if a piece of furniture had

knob. Was this another one of his c

ugh to see Arthur Finch rushing past with another man carrying a medical bag. They disappea

from inside, she slipped into the hallway and crept closer, keeping one hand braced

chaos. A lamp was smashed on the f

ad as if trying to keep it from splitting apart. His whole body was wracked

comprehend. This wasn't the cold, calculating man from

him with a syringe. "Mr. Ca

t with a savage swipe of his arm. The syrin

e a slight, resigned shake of his head

eing replaced by a strange, unsettling emotion. It was shock, but it was also

exhaustion and a deep, weary sadness. He saw her s

with him?" Ala

left him with more than just scars. Severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And an insomnia so profound h

al scars on his face, the hidden pain she'd glimpsed in

bag. The familiar, calming scent of lavender and chamomile

ep breath, her knuckles white as she clutched the sach

t safe!" the do

ocked onto hers. He bared his teeth, a low, warning growl rumbling in hi