TWO DAYS. ALMOST FORTY-eight hours of shivering, of twitching in her own skin, of plotting the impossible, of interminable pacing.
Only Brook’s father had visited the cellar in that time, and even he had ventured only as far as the lowest step, from where he deposited her meals and sent her glowers of disapproval, before tip-tapping his way back up to the warmth and light.
Brook had seen nobody else, or heard them—not even her mother.
Until Stefan arrived.
The instant the steps hit stone, Brook knew someone other than her father had come. The slow, almost taunting descent he made should have warned her of who approached before his jeans appeared, his too-tight sweater, and his cocky grin that she automatically wanted to erase off his smug face.
He halted at the bottom, head slanted as
