Hope had shriveled to one prayer: Make it painless.
That night, a miracle clanged into my cage—
Charred pheasant. Skinless.
My gaze snapped to Silas' window.
A white specter flitted behind paper panes.
I cradled the offering like live ordnance.
Logic screamed trap.
Scent-seduced instincts purred possibility.
"Does the backdoor exist?" I breathed to Celia.
Next dawn, I timed my ambush perfectly.
"Silas Brooks." My voice silk-wrapped steel.
He froze mid-stride.
I replicated the pit-trap pose—knees drawn to chest, eyes liquid amber.
"Rescue me?"
But now in stolen woman-skin.
Slender-waisted. Rose-mouthed.
His gaze snagged on my hip curve—
Precisely where Celia's vine-belt cinched the stolen robe.
I lunged for the telltale ear-blush—
Too late.
A blur of white robes vanished behind moon gates.
"Flirtation failed," I groaned.
Celia's smirk cut through despair.
"Observe the gravel."
Pearl buttons glistened where he'd fled—torn clean off his collar in panic.