The next morning, I woke to the low murmur of voices drifting through my window. Deep. Controlled. The kind of sound that slipped under your skin like a warning.
It wasn’t laughter or chatter or casual conversation. No, this was something else. Strategized. Male voices.
Dominance, cloaked in civility.
I didn’t linger. I didn’t need to.
I wasn’t summoned for breakfast.
I never was.
Not since returning from supply duty. Not since I’d learned how to disappear in plain sight.
My routine was simple: wait until the footsteps faded and the dining hall emptied, then slip down to the kitchens, grab a tray, and retreat to the privacy of Lena’s or Selene’s room like a well, trained shadow.
This morning, I followed the same pattern.
Or I tried to.
Until I stepped into the hallway
