"His Grace instructed this to be locked," Edgar said, his tone devoid of judgment, merely delivering fact. "You will find fresh water and linens. Supper will be brought shortly."
She stepped inside without answering, listening to the click of the lock as it slid into place behind her.
For a long moment, she stood still, taking in the small, sparsely furnished room. A narrow bed against the far wall. A single chair beside a desk that had seen better days. No windows. The kind of place meant to keep someone, not welcome them.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. This wasn't a chamber; it was a cage dressed in politeness.
Liora moved to the desk, fingers brushing over the rough wood, then stopped when she noticed a small iron bolt on the inside of the door, useless now, with the outer lock secured. She drew a slow breath, forcing her pulse to steady.
If Lucien Blackthorne thought she would wilt in a locked room, he had gravely underestimated her.
