Lyra’s POV
The world was dissolving into a haze of gold-leafed furniture and the cloying, suffocating scent of jasmine.
I lay paralyzed on the cold marble floor, my cheek pressed against the stone as I watched the slow, rhythmic twitch of Selena’s fingers. She was dying just feet away from me, her blood pooling in the cracks of the tile…a dark, viscous ink that chronicled her own stupidity.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to reach for the dagger strapped to my thigh and drive it into the throat of the man kneeling over me. But the paralytic agent in the air had turned my blood to lead, leaving my lungs stuttering as they struggled to draw enough oxygen to keep my heart beating.
“You look so small like this, Lyra,” Anton whispered. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw wit
