AUTHOR POV

The next day, Clarissa woke to the sharp sting of pain along her ribs, her breaths shallow and brittle. The linen of the hospital sheets was brittle beneath her bruised back and tender shoulders. She drew in a shaky breath, every inhale a reminder of last night’s horrors. She’d been beaten—tortured—for protecting Tessa—and yet she still lived. Guilt coiled around her like a serpent. Every fiber in her body screamed in protest, but her spirit burned more fiercely by the memory of freedom still possible.

Bruised and battered, she strained to sit up. The iron taste of blood on her lips reminded her why she’d suffered: Ferdinand’s men...