Nerine stirred slowly, her head pounding as though struck by iron. The first thing she noticed was the dimness—a single candle burning low on a crooked wooden table, its flame trembling with each breath of air. The walls were rough stone, damp and suffocating. She tried to move, but her wrists and ankles refused her; thick ropes bound them tightly.
Her memory jolted back.
The alley. The struggling woman. The blow to her neck.
She gasped through the gag in her mouth, but the sound was muffled, incoherent. She twisted against her bonds desperately, panic rising in her chest.
Footsteps.
A heavy boot appeared in the fringe of her vision. Then a man stepped forward—rugged, broad-shouldered, his face hidden under tangled hair and a scar across his chin. His grin was jagged, cruel.
He crouched down and yanked the gag from her mouth. "There," he said with a smirk. "Pretty face shouldn't be hidden."
