TWENTY-FIVE
He'd left the lantern to taunt her, Sativa was sure of it. There was not even a window to look or squeeze out of – no exit but the bolted door. Her only escape was death, like poor Nekane.
Who was still stuck in the privy, poor woman.
Sativa's hands were sticky and red, and her tunic and hose were soaked. She hadn't known a body could lose this much blood and still live. And yet...still she felt no pain.
Did that mean she was near the end? The end where the devil of a captain would do things to her corpse?
Never.
There had to be a way out.
She glanced at Nekane. Perhaps the dead widow did hold the answer.
As Sativa approached her, the stench grew, until she had to haul her tunic over her nose to bear it. This was the smell of death, though, and not the privy beneat
