(The Montaigne Estate - The Master Suite)
Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, far brighter than the gloom of the North Tower.
Amaryllis gasped, waking with a start. Her hand flew to her chest, expecting the cold bite of the suppression field or the rough stone of her cell. Instead, she felt silk.
She looked around. The room was vast, decorated in silver and deep blue—the colors of House Montaigne.
"Lucien?" she whispered.
The room was empty.
She pushed herself up. Her body screamed in protest—her mana veins still ached from the backlash of her magic, and her wrists were bruised—but the healing magic Lucien had paid for had done its work. She was weak, but whole.
She swung her legs out of bed. She was wearing a nightgown of fine white silk that wasn't hers.
"Lucien!" she called out, louder this time.
Silence.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. He had promised to protect her. He had carried her out of hell. He wouldn't just leave.
