Page 264 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“No?” He brushes the hair from my face, sending a shiver along my dead limbs. “You don’t want to see the men you worked so hard to unite? The men you love so much? They’re my gifts to you. And there’s more.”

He stands and paces out of view. I track his footsteps into the kitchen. Straining my ears, I try to pick up any details, something that might help me as he moves around in the other room.

What did we leave behind when we escaped? Weapons in the armory. Knives in the kitchen. Scissors on the counter. None of that helps when I can’t lift a finger.

My brain works frantically, formulating possibilities.

I will not let them die.

We survived this place once. We’ll survive it again.

Think, Frankie. Fucking think.

I know the drug’s effects are short-acting if not continuously administered. If I can disrupt the IV, maybe I can regain control of my body.

Scanning the room, I look for anything within reach. The edge of a table, a zipper on the couch cushion, anything I can use to dislodge the IV. My mind whirls with desperation.

In extreme situations, a surge of adrenaline can sometimes help the body override paralysis. If I can just get a hand moving, maybe I can pinch or damage the IV line.

I shut my eyes, listening to his footsteps in the kitchen while willing my fingers to move, to close, to tear. Perspiration beads along my temples. Tears leak down my face. My insides tremble with the effort to unlock my joints.

The sound of his approach snaps my eyes open, the burst of energy quickly fading.

Not yet. But I can do this. I’ll find a way.

He reenters the room, his demeanor calm. Too calm.

His blue eyes meet mine, and I hold his gaze in silent defiance.

“As much as I don’t want to cover your gorgeous body, I don’t want you to be cold.” He kneels at my side, holding a velvety green robe. “I have something to show you. Something I’ve been collecting for you.”

I don’t want it. Please, don’t show me anything.

He maneuvers my limbs, the IV fluid bag, and portable pump into the robe, ties the sash, and sets the bag on my stomach. Then he lifts me into his arms and carries my immobilized body into the kitchen.

While my arm dangles like a lead weight, my eyes are restless, frantically taking in each new angle.

I don’t expect to find a table. It was one of the first things we burned in the hearth.

The scent of cold, damp earth merges with something sterile, something wrong. My heart rattles against my ribs, but there’s nothing I can do.

Rhett carefully lays me on a new kitchen table.

A table surrounded by people.

People propped up in chairs, motionless.

No, not people.

Corpses.

My breath seizes, my eyes widening in terror as I take in the faces. I recognize them. Most of them.

Horror mauls my insides, turning everything to ice. Every muscle, every nerve screams for release, for escape, but I can’t move. I can’t fight back.

I can’t escape this nightmare.

My nervous system riots with panic while my body remains silent, paralyzed, and compliant on the table of death.

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