CHAPTER 57
Isabella lay staring at the ceiling, tracing the intricate, carved patterns of the dark wood until her eyes burned.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the occasional pop of the dying embers in the hearth.
She was bored—restless and agitated in a way that made her skin feel like a suit she was dying to unzip.
She had tried to force herself into the sleep her body clearly needed, but her mind was a frantic engine, fueled by the King's blood.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of lightning or felt the spray of sea salt from a cliff that didn't exist.
"Great," she muttered to the empty room, her voice sounding flat and alien. "I'm a prisoner in a five-star room."
She glanced around the room, towards the sleek black television and the high end chandelier. Everything looked so expensive that she fear she would break anything through her breath.
