Moments later,

Aria

The steam swallowed us, a humid, opaque shroud that smelled of damp cedar, expensive sandalwood, and the metallic, copper tang of my own boiling blood.

I didn't care about the consequences of my intrusion. I didn't care about the etiquette of a princess or the strategic caution of an agent.

The Purgatory was a violent, unrelenting tide, and this man - this towering wall of raw, corded muscle and ink - was the only anchor keeping me from being swept into a fever-induced abyss.

I jumped.

It was a predatory movement, fueled by the toxins screaming for an exit and the primal instinct to survive.

I wrapped...