The underground chill of the archives clung to my skin as I hurried back to the Western Wing. My hands were completely empty; I couldn't risk carrying the scroll Arlo gave me out in the open. Instead, I had it hidden right against my bare skin, tucked securely into the tight waistband of my midnight blue gown, right against my hip. The parchment was freezing against my flesh, a constant, terrifying reminder of the threat against my pack although, truth be told, I didn't even know if they still existed or had already been wiped from the earth.
As I walked down the empty, torch-lit corridors, my mind kept drifting back to Gunnar.
I hated myself for it. Why was I even wasting my thoughts on him? The man hadn't shown a single ounce of real care for me since the day he bought me from the slav
