In the dark of the room, I stared wide-eyed at Mr. Whiskers, but I didn't see him. All that was emblazoned across my mind was an image of Laurena with her baby-fuzz head. I had done an absolute hatchet job on the Wychthorn Princess's hair. Some of the cuts I'd made were so close to her scalp, she looked bald.

BALD!

Confronted with the enormity of what I'd committed by stealing Laurena's hair, and the brutality that awaited if she discovered it was me, paralyzing fear had ensnared me, snaking around my bones and squeezing until I'd cracked and trembled with terror. I'd jolted into mindless motion without thinking, poured the glamour potion into her mouth, and missed.

Missed!

FREAKING MISSED!

And though I was aware I was speaking, it was as if a stranger was saying those words—What am I going to do?—their voice distorted and distant.

What have I done?

WHAT. HAVE. I. FREAKING. DONE!?

The empty glass vial slipped from my limp fingers, and I heard it fall with a soft thump, which dragged my attention away from Mr. Whiskers' unblinking gaze, shadowed with concern, to the bed. I watched the vial roll down the gentle slope and stop at the bedding tucked around Laurena's upper chest.

Laurena's pink lips were cast wide open, and the horrendous sound of her snoring buzzed through the air. Loud, but it wasn't as loud as the cold blood rushing in my ears. I watched in horror as the last of the potion ran like tears down her chin and neck, sliding over the plastic sheet beneath her head and shoulders to saturate the white sheets and stain them a pastel peach.

Oh...

My...

Freaking...

Gods...

Dread felt like a physical blow to my gut. I winced. My chilled, stiff fingers clutched my middle as if I could hold my mental state together if I just pressed hard enough on my stomach. Hysterical sobs threatened to bubble up my throat.

Maybe the few drops of glamour potion would muddle Laurena's sleepy head and fool her into thinking she still had a long mane of blond locks.

But she hasn't drunk enough of it!

My thoughts were a whirlwind of chaos and terror. My mind shot ahead, fumbling in its calculation of what I could do, and how I could get my hands on some more glamour potion to trick Laurena into thinking she still had her hair. But I couldn't think straight. I couldn't untangle the panic from what needed to be done to extract myself from this perilous situation.

My breath came quicker, faster. I felt lightheaded and dizzy. I pressed a hand to my temple, my fingertips gliding along clammy, sweaty skin.

Think...

Think!

I needed to carry on. I needed to keep moving with my plan. There wasn't much time left before the Spryte larvae exploded and set into play my second distraction to escape Laurena's bedroom undetected.

How am I going to get back in here again?

Sneaking into Laurena's bedroom a second time would be next to impossible.

But if I didn't, Laurena would awaken and see herself scalped. The Wychthorn Princess's rage would be far-reaching and savage. She would round up everyone—all of us—all the daughters and sons of Houses, and every single servant present, and my mind wouldn't stop unraveling the cruel possibilities that would be bestowed upon my flesh when she discovered it was me—a servant. She'd lock me away in the pitch-black dungeons beneath the Denaiuds' mansion, left to rot and starve to death. She'd take her wrath out on my body, whipping my back until it was shredded ribbons. Or worse, order my death: sharpened steel stabbed through my heart or beheaded by the family that dealt in death—Lower House Crowther.

I couldn't think straight.

I didn't know what to do.

Keep moving—a small, resilient part of my brain screamed at me.

Keep moving!

I lunged for the empty vial as if would solve everything.

I couldn't get my fingers to work. They were clumsy, fat digits that wouldn't bend. For freaks' sake, I couldn't even pick up the small vial with its cool, glass surface. I panted, struggling for breath, stupidly still trying to wrap my fingers around the empty freaking glamour vial.

Warm fingers stole around mine and pinched the vial, and then Mr. Whisker's hands wrapped around my ribs to straighten my body and turn me around.

"Easy," he said as if soothing a spooked animal, while pocketing the vial in his pocket. I didn't flinch or jerk away when one of his hands curved around my arm, and the other curled around behind my neck. He drew us closer and, even through the bulky football attire beneath my hoodie, his body heat licked mine like flames in a forge.

I curled my bottom lip into my mouth and bit down hard on the soft flesh as I looked miserably up at him, trying not to cry. "I don't know what to do," I confessed, my voice cracking.

"I'll steal some more glamour potion," he whispered, bowing his head so we were mere inches apart.

My eyebrows slashed upward. "How?"

How could he find some and get back here in time?

"There are others..." I watched his throat ripple as he swallowed. I was struck by the grief that haunted his deep violet eyes. It looked like an old unwanted friend that had been with him for quite some time. And once more I wondered what had happened in his past.

His brows nudged together as his eyes became stormy. He glanced away over my shoulder, perhaps to the brocade curtains that swept to the floor. His grip on the nape of my neck tightened as he added, his voice low and bitter, "There are other women who douse themselves in glamour. I'll steal a potion from one of them, come back here, and get her to drink it."

My eyes widened even further as bewilderment numbed my mind. "You'd do that for me?"

He angled his head back to mine. The black tangled locks of hair swayed and raked over his broad, powerful shoulders. In the dark, his eyes held a strange gleam, like a creature stalking prey at night. A shiver, not entirely unpleasant—a strange cocktail of fear and arousal—speared down my spine. As if he felt it shifting beneath my skin, his calloused fingers flexed on my neck and arm, drawing a soft gasp from my lips as my back bowed. A flicker of satisfaction flared briefly in his eyes. "Sure," he rumbled, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice. "Because you're going to agree to spend one night with me in return."

My mouth fell open in shock. I blinked slowly, wondering if I had heard him right. "Are you...are you blackmailing me?"

He softly tsked me. "Such an ugly word."

I cocked my head, arching an eyebrow, tempted to fold my arms across my chest. I mentally tsked him back—amateur. "How about I blackmail you? I've got just as much leverage as you do. "

He jerked his head back, one corner of his mouth curving downward as his nose scrunched. "It doesn't work that way. You can't blackmail me back."

"I could tell them you stole her ring."

"No one will believe you—"

It stung. Those words stung. I flinched, and cut him off before he could go any further. Anger stirred beneath my skin as I squinted at him. "Because I'm a lowly house servant?" I stabbed him in the chest with an annoyed finger. "Well, you're a servant too, hunter."

A muscle beneath his eye ticked, and some dark feeling washed over his features that I couldn't place. There and gone. Whatever it was, I didn't care. I tipped my chin up. "I say, servant, that I'm blackmailing you instead. No, to the night together. Help me fix this, or else I'll tell."

We stared at one another, unblinking and unyielding, both our gazes flinty. A stand-off. The longer we stared, the more aware I became of the atmosphere surrounding us. There was tension and exhilaration vibrating in the air like oncoming storm winds. Desire too, which caressed my bare skin—a sea breeze at sundown.

"I don't think so," he said slowly, carefully, his violet eyes sliding to Laurena who lay on the bed with her hair shorn like a sacrificial lamb. "Because you'll go down with me."

My mouth went bone-dry as I suddenly found the situation flipped once more. "Why?" It whispered from me so quietly I wasn't even sure I spoke it.

It was a myriad of questions with one word. Why did he want me? Why was I special? Out of all the women he could have by just flashing one of his lazy smiles, why me? Why would he force me to spend one night with him?

Lust, I thought.

What would he want from me? Want me to do with him? To him?

And as soon as that last question spread through my mind it cast a bright, naked light on all the desires hidden in the shadowed crevasses of my mind. Desires I hadn't realized I possessed. Things I wanted to try. To experience, even if it was with a ruthless and untamed beast that could bite my fingers off.

Something sensual flickered in his eyes, and heat rushed to my cheeks as I realized he had read everything I was thinking and feeling as if it were scratched upon my expression in a neat scribble of calligraphy and ink. He liked seeing me this way—off-kilter and nervous, yet wanting.

He shifted his weight, his expensive shoes quietly clicking on the wooden floor. "I don't fucking know," he answered honestly, his hand flexing around my neck. His gaze, lingering on my lips, made something awaken between my thighs. His eyes suddenly snapped upward, startling me with the molten desire that made the golden flecks around his pupils glitter. "I like your badass attitude—coming in here hacking off Laurena's hair." He tsked, then broke into a mischievous grin.

A barking laugh of surprise surged up my throat and my highly strung nerves eased. I slapped my hand over my mouth just in time. The breath from my nose huffed over my fingers, warming them, as my shoulders shuddered in silent laughter.

Badass indeed.

Abruptly, a rapid knocking sound came from the door that connected this room to Byron's. "Rena?"

Byron Wychthorn.

Freaking hells!

Mr. Whiskers moved fast—faster than I had ever seen anyone move before. In one heartbeat I was standing in front of him, the next I'd been pushed behind him. His massive figure shielded me from the adjoining door. My fingers clenched the back of his shirt, pulling the fabric tight around his tense muscles.

The knocking grew louder and faster. "Rena?" came again, more insistent, thrumming with anger.

My mouth dried even further, like parched earth, when I saw Laurena sluggishly move in the corner of my eye.

"Shit, the adjoining door isn't locked," Mr. Whiskers whispered.

I peered around him, and then upward, meeting his gaze as he looked down and asked me, "How were you getting out of here?"

"I have a distraction." I pulled my sleeve back to check my watch. The larvae should have exploded by now. I winced, biting my bottom lip. "It should have gone off by now."

What had gone wrong?

Had someone discovered the bloating larvae?

Byron's knocking become angrier, and Laurena drowsily wriggled about in her bed. Not even the drugs I'd given her were able to keep her in a deep sleep with the ruckus Byron was making. "Rena!"

Pure panic eroded my frayed nerves.

Freaking hells-gate!

I'd wasted so much time worrying over the possibilities of what could happen to me if I was caught, and arguing with Mr. Whiskers over the fine print of blackmail, I hadn't finished stealing all of Laurena's hair. This was for my aunt. No matter what happened next, even if Byron burst in her here and caught me red-handed, I still had to try.

Despite my efforts to keep a level head, mindless terror crashed down upon me and I moved without thought. I left Mr. Whiskers, bent over the bed, and curved my hand beneath Laurena's head, lifting it up. I'd brought a soft-bristled brush with me, and I manically brushed her shoulders, neck, and tufted scalp, loosening cut hair much as a hairdresser did, and let them fall to the plastic sheet beneath her. Faster, faster, faster—I urged myself as Byron beat the door faster, his voice rising. "RENA!"

Roughly tugging the plastic sheet from beneath Laurena with my free hand, I lay her head back down on the pillow and rolled up the plastic sheet with all the strands of hair, tucking it inside a plastic zip-lock bag. I fumbled with my backpack, shoving the hairbrush and the plastic zip-lock bag inside.

How the hells was I going to get out of here?

"Tabitha..." Mr. Whiskers was at the bedroom window, waving me to join him. He'd already opened it up and the sounds of fireworks, music and cheering rolled inside along with crisp air that promised dew at dawn.

My eyes went round. I frantically shook my head, drawing back. "I can't," I whispered, thinking of how high up we were, clutching my bag to my chest as if it could save me. I had an irrational fear of heights. I didn't even know why or how it had come to be, but I couldn't go near anything with a drop. Every time I did, I almost passed out with fright.

"Rena! I know what you've done!"

I jittered on the spot. My gaze whiplashed from Laurena to her bedroom door, to the adjoining door rattling with the force of Byron's thumps. What was I going to do?

Suddenly, Mr. Whiskers was right beside me. He snatched my backpack and wrapped a hand around my wrist. He hefted my bag over a shoulder and gently tugged me toward the open window.

No, no, no—

My body wanted to flee, but my mind knew there was nowhere to run. Both exits were blocked and my decoy hadn't ignited to draw Byron and Laurena's bodyguard away.

Sweat beaded on my hairline, my heart hammered at my ribs, and I began to feel dizzy as I neared the open window. My eyes flared wide at how high up we were with nothing but a small window ledge to cling onto.

I tried to tug free, but he wasn't letting go.

And Bryon was thumping his fists on the door. "I know you're in there, Rena, you viper!"

"I've got you..." Mr. Whiskers whispered, confidence etched within his tone as he gave my wrist a reassuring squeeze. He pointed to a drainpipe. "We're going to climb out, grab hold of pipe, and use it shimmy down."

My bottom lip wobbled and fearful tears pricked the corner of my eyes. The oxygen in my lungs began to thin. "I can't..." The words were merely breathless air.

"It's easy. Climb onto the windowsill and grab hold of the pipe."

He let go of my wrist, shoving his arms through my bag's shoulder straps and adjusting them to sit on his massive shoulders better. "Quickly, we don't have much time." He moved me in front of him, pressed his palm firmly to my back, and pushed me forward. My upper body canted out the window and I almost shrieked with blinding terror. My fingers curled around the wooden window sill and dug grooves into the smooth white paint. Even though I was partway outside of a window, with a crisp autumn breeze slinking along my clammy skin and raising goosebumps, it seemed as if I was in an airless vacuum.

As soon as my wide-eyed gaze took in the dizzying height below, pure terror fell upon me like a coarse, musty blanket.

My mind turned inward.

And I speared somewhere else inside my head.

Phantom hands wrapped around my throat and cinched cruelly.

A voice, different from and harsher than the one I'd heard earlier whispering inside my mind, hissed venomous hatred at me. The words ran together too quickly to understand what it was saying, but I knew from the inflection its intent and what its feelings were for me. Such was the loathing, threaded through the indistinguishable words.

I didn't see the ground below. Not the leafy trees and bushy shrubs lining the mansion's wall that might break my fall, nor the expanse of lush lawn, nor the pebbled pathway with its stones in gray and whites.

I only saw darkness. Absolute darkness, like peering into a fathomless void, its black depth wavering and curling up, reaching for me. And I knew if I fell in...if I was pushed in...if whoever it was that held me by my throat let go...

I'd fall.

And fall.

And fall—

Until time ended and began and folded in on itself.

Or...

Something down there—

Caught you...

My lungs tightened like a vice, squeezing all the oxygen from my lungs. The dark void began to spin around me. Black spots flickered in front of my vision—

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe!

My hands scrabbled at my throat, trying to scratch and pull those phantom fingers choking me away. But I couldn't get them to release me...and even if a small part of my brain knew this wasn't real, I still couldn't stop from trying to save myself.

Not real...not real...not real...

This isn't happening!

I lurched back, stumbling into Mr. Whiskers, knocking him backward. Panicked, rasping sounds competed with Laurena's snoring and Byron's yelling and thumping fist. Darkness encroached on my vision like spilled ink whorling and clouding water. My trembling body swayed as I began to black out. I pitched sideways—

"Holy shit," someone hissed—

The wooden floor rushed to meet me—

Large hands grabbed hold of my body. One hand wound around the back of my neck, the other on my hip, easing me upright as Mr. Whiskers twisted me around and pulled me into his chest. He shifted one strong arm around my back, and the other remained curved around the nape of my neck as he supported my shaking body.

"Breathe..." he whispered. "I've got you... It's okay...you're okay..."

My fingers bunched into his shirt, and I clung to him as if he was an outcrop of jagged rock in an endless ocean, with nothing to see on the horizon but roiling water.

I didn't know where my mind had gone. It had felt so real as if it were happening...or rather, had happened to me before.

His soft dress shirt caressed my cheek as he held me to him. His deep voice vibrated against my cheekbone and his heart beat a true and steady rhythm beneath my ear. "Breathe..." he urged, his warm breath teasing the fine hair around my clammy temple.

He gently tilted my head back to look at me better. His thumb brushed back and forth behind my ear, a comforting presence that pushed back the panic at what I'd just experienced.

Maybe it was feeling safe in his arms, protected by his powerful body. Or maybe it was his authoritative tone, commanding yet tender, that calmed me enough to loosen the constricting bands around my lungs. Or maybe it was the strain and worry in his voice as he stared with eyes hard and unyielding. Or maybe it was simply by sheer will alone that he forced my swollen lips to part and suck in a breath, my body jerking against his with the sudden intake of oxygen. Air flowed down my throat, sharp and sweet and infused with the scent of him—faint anise and another that was wholly male—that soothed my burning throat.

His gaze softened at the first whistling sound of air expanding in my lungs. "And another..." he murmured, and I complied. "That's it, good girl...one more..." he ordered softly, relief clear in his tone.

His mouth pressed into a hard line, and he pointedly tipped his chin at the open window. "The only way out of here is through that window."

My bottom lip wobbled as I shook my head. "I-I...can't. I'm terrified of heights."

A half-smile teased the corner of his mouth. "No kidding."

Suddenly, the raucous sound of popping and crackling came from within the mansion.

Thank Zrenyth!