It was hard to push out the words or even care to. "Where is Graysen?" To my own ears, my voice sounded flat, dull, and lifeless. A heavy feeling pressed down on me, lethargy perhaps, but it felt more than that. I also realized I was starving...and my bladder was nearly bursting.

I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and half-fell from the bed. My legs wobbled beneath me like a newborn foal as I stumbled through the bathroom, rushing to the toilet. After I'd relieved myself I washed my hands with hot water and liquid soap. I turned the water off and twisted the cold water tap on instead. Cupping my hands together beneath the flowing water, I drank in mouthfuls of cool refreshing liquid, soothing my parched mouth and dry throat.

Turning the tap off, I wiped my hands dry on the towel wrapped around my body, tightening and re-tucking the edge. I had no clothes. I had nothing that belonged to me.

I exhaled a long breath as fear began to slink back in, and took in my appearance in the mirror. Clean from soot, my hair was matted and frizzy from how I'd slept, knotted from the use of only shampoo and not combing and untangling the snarls. My eyes were tired and still a little bloodshot. My gaze trailed over my honeyed skin, which seemed duller and still ached and stung from the bruises and scrapes all over my arms and legs.

And that rope.

That godsdamned piece of rope.

It was a parasite, a blocker—the thing between me and my wyrm. I had to get it off and yet I didn't know how. I fumbled at the knot at the nape of my neck, and trying to untie it proved impossible.

Besides all that, it fucking itched. My fingers went for the coil around my throat, weaseling past the barest gap, trying to soothe the irritated skin. My nostrils flared and my eyes slit as rage heated my blood like a billow pumping air on embers. The rope collaring my neck like a hangman's noose was the choice Graysen had made. His own. A message to my father that he held my family's safety, their very lives in his palm—and it was the last act that cleaved Graysen and I apart.

I had to find a way to free myself from the Crowthers, and right now the only person I could threaten was outside that door.

Quietly I pulled out the drawers in the vanity, shooting quick, furtive glances at the door, and listening for a warning of Penn's approach. I carefully rifled through products, looking for anything I could use like a weapon. Nothing. No razor blades for shavers, or scissors, not even a godsdamned nail file.

Curse him to Nine Hells!

Frustration had me rapping my fingertips against the vanity counter. Resolve had my gaze snapping to the bathroom door—surely there'd be something out in his bedroom, maybe even a knife brought in with my breakfast.

I stepped out of the bathroom and found Penn had risen and was standing beside the square dining table where a silver tray sat, the silver cloche catching the soft light from the reading lamp. I was right, she had to be only five-foot-four, with a dainty-looking frame and doll-like features.

Perfect.

It should be easy to overpower her.

All I had to do was get hold of her—rough her up a bit and scare the hells out of her, which right this moment I certainly wasn't averse to, I was practically itching to deliver violence—and then force her to take the rope off my neck.

Penn pulled the cloche off, setting it aside, and placed a china plate and bowl on the table, as well as silver cutlery.

The knife gleamed, teasing me.

It should be easy enough to grab hold of Penn by her hair, press the blade to her throat hard enough to draw blood, and terrorize her into unknotting the rope from my neck.

She turned to face me, smiling politely, and I quickly plastered an innocent expression on my face as I approached.

She said, "Have something to eat and if you need more sleep you can—"

"I'm not going to sleep in his bed," I shot back, my hackles instantly raised, and crossed my arms over my chest. I scowled at the monstrosity that was Graysen's bed. It was a four-post bed that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of wood. Instead of a single post from each rounded side, several sprouted, curving upward to meet at the center and twist and flair outward. It gave it a bow shape, a wicker basket of sorts—and the image that speared inside my mind of what it resembled had my blood searing hot—a bird cage! I barked a harsh laugh that caught in my throat and turned into a hacking cough.

Holy shit.

Pressing a hand to my chest, I sucked in a slow, careful breath to ease the flare of raw heat.

"He said you'd say that," she replied.

I rolled my eyes and caught her lips twitching and her blue eyes glittering with amusement, but she refrained from smiling. "And...that eye-rolling thing, too."

Arrogant bastard!

Penn pulled out the high-back chair with its worn leather seat, its feet sliding upon the carpet, and stepped back waiting for me to sit down. Her eyes—the blue of them were like sapphires. It was the quality in their depth staring back at me that made me pause. They looked too old in a face so young and seemed to hold a wary note in them as if she'd seen far more of life than she should have.

She gestured to the bowl filled with fruit and a slice of toast on a side plate. "You must be starving."

When was the last time I'd eaten?

Crappy pancakes—that set my stomach clenching in anger. Graysen had made them for me while he plotted to steal me.

Fire and fury scorched the insides of my chest.

It wasn't food I went for first, it was the knife.

I lunged, snatching it, whirling around to swipe the air in a wide arc.

Penn jerked back, her eyes flaring wide.

I shoved forward, reaching for her head, intending to grab her hair and press the knife to her throat.

She deftly sidestepped—

Easily thwarted me with a bone-jarring slap of the hand on my wrist—

The knife went spinning, falling with a soft thud to the carpeted floor.

No, no, no!

Her fingers gripped my forearm, twisting it behind my back, and tore a startled, pain-laced cry from my throat.

She spun us both, thrusting me hard into the wall. My face struck stone threaded with adamere and dizzying stars burst behind my eyes. My teeth chattered as my bottom lip split apart. Stinging pain shot through my nerves and body. The air was sucked from my lungs as my ribs slammed into solid stone.

I panted, twisting and turning, the rough stone grating my skin, but she was too strong—shoving me back, easily subduing me, twisting my arm behind my back even harder. An intense pain bloomed up my arm, setting my joints on fire.

Shit, shit, shit—

"Don't bother trying," she said, pressing close, speaking into my ear. It wasn't harsh and she wasn't laughing at my pathetic attempt either. It was just a simple warning. "It's a butter knife. Not exactly the world's most deadliest weapon."

Embarrassment heated my cheeks. Butter knife or not, for that brief moment it had felt glorious to wield it.

"I've lived with the Crowthers far too long, and they've taught me everything I need to know when it comes to defending myself or attacking." Her grip on my arm eased a little and the agony that set my nerves aflame eased. "You can't get out. Even if you managed to disable me—with Zrenyth's rope around your neck, you can't leave."

"Let me go," I gritted out. My lip throbbed and blood dripped down my chin, splattering on the towel which rose with my chest as I gulped in deep, rapid breaths. "You know what the Crowthers are doing is wrong."

She paused a moment before answering. "I'm instructed to look after you until Graysen returns."

"And when will that be?"

She let go of me, stepping back. I turned around, slumping against the wall, kneading the bruising agony in my arm where she'd gripped and twisted it without mercy. I gently brushed away the blood from my chin, my fingers coming away coated in scarlet.

"A few days."

"Where has he gone?" I asked, then tentatively licked up new beads of blood as they appeared on my broken lip, wincing at the sting, and the taste was coppery on my tongue.

She bent down to retrieve the knife, keeping an eye on me as she did so. She seemed apologetic when she answered. "I don't know."

My stomach grumbled as the faint smell of food drifted from the table. But my appetite was as dull as the butter knife Penn placed back on the table.

Godsdammit she was right, the thing was practically useless, though I still could have punched through an artery with enough force. Despite how fragile she looked, she was strong and she'd easily outmaneuvered me. I knew attempting this again, no matter what kind of weapon I wielded, would be futile. I was completely out-skilled. Defeat spiraled through me, but not enough of it to stop me from walking up to the table and picking up the knife again.

Penn watched me as warily as I watched her. I slid just the tip of the knife under the rope curved around my neck and sawed it back and forth. Its dull-edged blade wasn't working. Nothing, not even a tiny fray. The fucking thing was impossible to cut through!

Light struck off the silver metal as I hurled it at the wall. It clattered dully, ricocheting off, and skipped across the long threads of the carpet before coming to rest beside the bedside table.

I crossed my arms and huffed, tapping a bare foot, thinking—what next?

There was no way in Nine Hells I was going to give up.

There might be another blade somewhere in Graysen's room. A crossbow? Perhaps even a gun? He was a Crowther, after all. He probably had an armory tucked away amongst the ordinary things.

I'd always assumed Graysen would have some kind of frat-boy bedroom with piles of dirty clothes strewn across the floor and pictures of naked women tacked upon the walls. But it wasn't anything like that at all. It was neat and tidy, no TV—and just like me there was a media area for his music and shelves full of books.

The bathroom and closet were adjacent to one another, jutting into the circular space. What I hadn't noticed before was the set of doors running along the outside of his walk-in closet. They folded in and out in a concertina fashion and once opened up, a kitchenette was revealed. I ran my palm across the cool granite countertop, the dark-gray stone swirled with blacks and flecked with navy. There was a steel sink, a stovetop for cooking, a fridge inset between the sets of drawers below the counter, and above the countertop were cupboards and open shelves holding glasses and mugs, and crockery.

I pulled open the top drawer with a clank. Spoons. Fucking spoons. The drawer was empty of everything else. There wasn't a single cutting knife or even ordinary dinner knives. Not even a godsdamned fork remained.

While Penn stood silently watching me, her hands clasped together at the middle of her waist and her big blue eyes unblinking, I rifled through the cupboards. Bitterness tasted like ash in my mouth. I quickly found there wasn't a single morsel of junk food amongst the stored food. Even the fridge was filled with fresh, healthy vegetables. There wasn't even one single can of fucking soda-pop.

Carelessly folding the doors closed, I moved along the wall to two doors that weren't part of the kitchenette. Behind the first door, I discovered a linen cupboard, and behind the next door—cleaning equipment.

I moved with purpose to his workstation. Nothing. Just staplers and pens and other types of stationary, which I hurled petulantly over my shoulder like a toddler having a hissy-fit.

I hit up the tall set of drawers and I went through each drawer like a raccoon through a trash can. Just neatly folded clothes apart from the top drawer.

The top drawer was full of nick-nacks—sea shells and subway tickets, coins, screws and bolts, beer coasters, rings and silver chains and loose change—useless things.

I shot Penn a suspicious look over my shoulder. "You're not going to stop me?"

"He said―"

"He expected me to go through his things?" I straightened, my eyes flaring wide, offended.

"His words, 'She won't be able to help herself.'" She gave back a small polite smile and gestured for me to go right ahead with a wave of her slender hand. "You'll not find a weapon. He collected them all up before he left. He didn't want you to hurt yourself."

The sonovabitch!

"But," she added, just as she dug into the pocket of her uniform and pulled something out. She placed it carefully on the dining table. "He suggested that you try to cut through the rope around your neck."

A dagger. There was an adamere dagger on the table. I watched like a ravenous wolf as she procured a second blade—a wyrmblade—placing it next to the first. And then a third. My gaze was transfixed by the darkness spilling over the table, the blade's form undulating with what it was crafted from—mist and shadow. Zrenyth's Dagger.

Penn minutely adjusted the dagger so the tip of the blade was aligned perfectly with the others.

I was rushing across the room, snatching at the daggers, a second later.

The adamere hilt was cool against my fingers and the dagger's blade useless.

I tossed it aside, grabbing hold of the wyrmblade. It hummed a song against my flesh. Its off-kilter melody strummed through my bones as if like sang to like. And I had a moment where my mind whirled back to that moment a few days back when I'd picked up Graysen's cursed sword to defend him. There was no time to think upon it then, how the curse hadn't tainted me, or how the sword vibrated with life in my hands as this one did too. It made sense now, knowing what I was, what I carried somewhere hidden within me—a wyrm.

Again, nothing.

I threw it to the table. The off-white bone dagger clattered and skidded over the smooth surface, but I was already reaching for Zrenyth's dagger. My hand wrapped around the hilt, and tendrils of mist and shadow skittered around my fingers.