Page 14 of The Rising Wave

“Garmand didn't send us down here. This was my idea. I thought a little more questioning might shake something loose.”

There was a moment of silence. “This wasn't sanctioned and now we get here and the prisoner is gone? Who's going to believe we didn't kill him and hid his body to cover for ourselves?”

“We walk away. No one knows we're down here. We just go back up.” Juni sounded nervous for the first time since Luc had met him.

“And if he's escaped?”

“The door was locked, remember? Chances are the general demanded to see him.” Juni sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but his words had the desired effect.

“That's true, it was locked.” The soldier with him gave a nervous laugh. “Still, let's get out of here.”

They moved away, with none of the laughter and joking they'd shared coming down, their boots ringing a quick staccato.

When they were gone, Luc eased a little away from Ava and looked down at her. “All right?” He was pressed up close to her, and he could see the sweep of her eyelashes in the flickering torchlight.

He moved aside and she stepped around him.

He must be cold, he realized. He felt a physical ache as she moved away. His shirt had long been ripped off him, and as they'd pressed together in the small crevice, her body heat had helped to warm him.

Ava looked in the direction of the stairs. “Let's try the other way first.”

He nodded, turning to lead the way. The stone floor was icy on his bare feet, and he shivered.

“I should have brought a blanket for you. I'm sorry.” Her words were soft behind him, and he gave a grunt in response.

A bit of cold was nothing.

Freedom was worth any price.

* * *

They neither heardnor saw anyone as they walked the unlit corridor.

Ava worried they would find themselves at a dead end and be caught, unable to evade whoever came to look for them.

Luc must have worried about that, too, because she ran in to him a few times in the darkness, standing with his head tilted back the way they had come, listening for signs of pursuit.

His torso looked terrible, black and red, swollen where he'd been hit.

“They didn't just use their fists, did they?” She reached out to touch him, but withdrew her hand before her fingertips made contact.

He glanced back, his eyes widening at the sight of her outstretched hand. Shook his head. “Sticks.”

She had been beaten only once, when she'd escaped the first time, and that had been because Herron had been in residence and he had been so angry, he had grabbed a sword from one of his guards and hit her with the pommel.

That was when she'd had to stitch herself above her eye.

She'd been told her legs would be broken if she escaped again, but Herron hadn't been around the second time, and no one had had the nerve to do it, in case Herron had changed his mind.

He'd told the general in charge of the fortress she was being kept as an alliance-maker-in-waiting. To be married off to someone useful to the kingdom.

Herron even had a list of husbands under consideration.

The guards had decided some of them might object to a crippled bride and wouldn't take the risk of being blamed later.

Of course, that wasn't why she was locked up. Herron would never risk letting her free.

If she wouldn't help him—and she wouldn’t—he couldn’t allow her to go free to help anyone else.

---