Isla stumbled out of Cairo’s chambers like a hunted thing, bare feet slapping the cold stone corridor. Her dress clung to her legs in wet patches—coffee, tears, panic sweat. Her throat still burned from his fingers. Her hands shook so violently she could barely hold them in front of her. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.
She had to get help. She had to tell someone. Cairo was unconscious—bleeding from the head—because of her.
She rounded the corner at a run and slammed straight into a solid chest.
Strong hands caught her shoulders before she could fall.
“Easy—Isla, what the hell—”
Soran.
His voice cut off when he saw her face—tear-streaked, mascara-smeared, eyes wide with terror. Her hair was matted with dried smoothie, her dress soaked and stained. She looked like she’d been
