The muffled shouts from the floor below, the sounds of the Royal Guards, were a distant, growing thunder.
Marissa's eyes, which had been locked on Senna's, snapped to Derek. His mask was dangling from the cloak he wore, his outfit was torn, and his hand was clamped tightly around his other arm. And through his fingers, dark, wet, and glistening, she saw the steady seep of blood.
"You're injured," she stated, her voice a flat, cold observation.
The sound of her voice, so calm in the middle of the chaos, seemed to break the spell.
"They are after you," she said, her mind putting the pieces together with speed: his disguise, his wound, the Royal Guards. This was not a random search. This was a hunt. And he's the prey.
A low, painful groan came from the room.
