Page 12 of Beyond the Cottage

“Did you come to kill me?” she asked. May as well get it out in the open.

“No.”

“Are you letting me go?”

He glanced away.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I?” No answer, but she hadn’t expected one. “At least tell me how long I’ve been here.”

“An hour and a half.”

More shitty luck—Brand and Philip had no idea she was missing. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“For now? Nothing.”

“What about tomorrow?”

He scrubbed the back of his neck and dropped his hand.

Sick of dragging non-information from him piecemeal, Gretta marched to the bars with her arms crossed. “If you aren’t going to kill me or release me, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I…brought provisions.”

“I don’t want them.”

As though she hadn’t spoken, he pushed a bedroll between the bars. A small lantern and a blanket followed, then he held out an oily paper bag.

Gretta’s stomach juices came alive at the smell coming from the bag, but she didn’t take it. He set it on the ground before the bars, along with a full burlap sack.

“I said I don’t want them!” she cried. “Let meout.”

A canteen thudded at her feet.

Gretta screeched and yanked on the bars. He moved out of reach, watching her struggle.

The fucker probably got off on her misery. He probably fell asleep fantasizing about the women he tortured. Choking down her frustration, she released the bars with a snarl. He continued staring at her, and she stared back. A charged, uncomfortable silence pulsed between them, but she refused to be the one to break it.

He blinked hard, and neutral coldness returned to his expression. Like an orderly finishing his rounds, he turned the cart and pushed it the way he’d come. With her face squeezed between the bars, Gretta watched him go.

“You’re a piece of shit!” she called. “A worthless freak! I swear on my life, you’re going toregretthis.”

The cart stopped. He turned his head, giving her his profile. Then the squeaky wheels resumed, and he disappeared into the dark.

Deflated, Gretta pushed off the bars, and her eyes strayed to the paper bag and canteen. Accepting anything from him grated, but she wouldn’t have the energy to escape if she didn’t eatsomething. Her supper of rum shots and pilfered crayfish hadn’t exactly been a banquet.

She pulled the bag inside and nibbled on cold chicken as she poked through the items in the burlap sack. A boring book. Tooth powder and a clean rag. Soft-soled shoes that actually fit. She’d rather have her sturdy leather boots, but these would at least offer some protection when she escaped into the swamps.

Gretta uncapped the canteen. Within three seconds of sniffing its contents, she was chugging, too thirsty to care about poison. When she’d had all she could take, she dragged the bedroll into the shadows and curled up on her side to wait.

Chapter 5

Anew set of footsteps came down the corridor, waking Gretta from a doze.

Birds had replaced the crickets outside, and their song made her temples throb, mocking her with cheer. The humidity was thicker now, along with the moist, rotten swamp smells. Nauseous, she swallowed hard to keep down the water she’d drunk the night before.

It hadn’t been poisoned—Gretta was epically hungover.

As the steps drew closer, she retied the black ribbon binding her ponytail and unsuccessfully tested her ability to fly. She shuffled to the sunlight coming from the window and forced her spine straight, preparing for whatever scumbag had come to visit.

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