Harper
The grip locked around my wrist and every survival instinct I owned lit up at once.
Last time something grabbed me in this place, the shadows in the fire had found me and Noah's actual hand had ended up crushing my actual windpipe in his actual cell.
My shield snapped tight on pure reflex, energy flooding to my right side, bracing for the cold, the drag, the bottomless pull that meant a memory had decided I looked like a snack.
Except the grip was warm.
Not ocean cold. Not dead fingers from under the glass. Warm. A temperature I could've picked out blindfolded in a blackout, because I'd fallen asleep against it more nights than I could count.
I looked up.
Vane.
He was standing on the glass floor beside me like he'd always been there, which was a problem, because two seconds
