Stavros stares at the pink satin ribbon in my hand. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't ask where it came from. He knows. The vein in his temple throbs, a visible pulse of lethal rage.
"He touched your pillow," he says. His voice is terrifyingly quiet. "He stood over you while we slept."
"He took my knife," I whisper, my fingers trembling around the frayed fabric. "He disarmed me in my own bed."
Stavros snatches the ribbon. He pulls a lighter from his pocket. Flick. The flame catches the old satin, curling it into black ash that floats to the floor.
"We are moving," he barks. "Now."
He doesn't let me pack. He grabs my arm and drags me out of the suite, down the corridor, past the confused guards. We descend. Past the gym. Past the command center. We go deep into the bedrock of the fortres
