CHAPTER 11: The Gilded Cage

POV: Neoma

The room was larger than the entire shack I had shared with seven other scavengers in the Warrens.

Commander Barzil had marched me through the labyrinthine halls of the Citadel. Past the Spartan steel of the barracks. Into a wing that smelled of lavender and money.

The scent was cloying. Heavy. It coated the back of my throat like syrup. He had shoved me inside. The door locked with a heavy, magnetic thud behind me.

Thum.

I stood in the center of the room. Clutching the canteen Viggo had given me like a lifeline. The metal was cool against my sweating palms.

The walls were painted a soft, creamy white. The floor was polished obsidian. Covered in thick, plush rugs that felt like animal fur under my boots.

On the far wall, a massive window looked out over the Citadel’s interior gardens—a view of impossible green that had to be synthetic.

And the bed.

It was an island of silk and down. Massive enough to sleep four people. Piled high with pillows.

"It's a trap," I whispered to the silence.

My stomach knotted. Comfort was dangerous. Comfort made you soft. And in the Obsidian Covenant, soft things were eaten.

I didn't drop my guard. Instead, I began the sweep.

Wolfy Vance was a Tactician. He dealt in information. There was no way he put a Void-Born asset in a room without eyes on it.

I checked the obvious spots first. The smoke detector. The vent grates. Nothing.

I moved to the less obvious. I dragged a heavy chair over to the ornate molding near the ceiling. I ran my fingers along the gap.

There.

A tiny, pinprick of heat. A micro-lens.

I jumped down. Checked the mirror in the bathroom. It was two-way glass; I could tell by the way my fingernail didn't touch its reflection.

They were watching. Of course they were. The thought made my skin prickle. A thousand invisible ants crawling up my spine.

I went into the bathroom. A porcelain tub deep enough to drown in. A shower with a head the size of a dinner plate. I turned the handle.

Hot water.

Real, clean, steaming water poured out. I stared at it for a full minute. Calculating how many credits this thirty seconds of flow would cost in the Dregs. A fortune.

I stripped off my rags—the clothes I had worn for three weeks. Stiff with sweat and grime. I stepped under the spray.

The heat hit me like a physical blow. Scalding. Wonderful.

I scrubbed until my skin was raw. I scrubbed to get the smell of the Dregs off me. To get the phantom feeling of Nergal’s cold touch off my chin. I scrubbed at the black tattoo on my wrist until it was angry and red. But the ink didn't fade. It just pulsed. Mocking me.

I stepped out. Drying myself with a towel that was softer than anything I had ever touched. I found fresh clothes folded on the counter—a simple grey tunic and pants. High quality weave, but distinctively servant colors.

A tray of food sat on the desk. Roast fowl. Vegetables. A glass of wine.

I ate the meat with my hands. Fast. Efficient. My stomach cramped around the sudden intake of food, but I ignored it. Then, I picked up the knife.

It was just a butter knife. Silver-plated with a dull edge. But it was metal. It was a weapon.

I slipped it into the waistband of my new pants. Cold against my hip.

I looked at the bed. The silk sheets rippled like water under the artificial light.

Sleep, my body begged. The sedative and the energy drain had left me shaking with exhaustion. My muscles felt like jelly.

But I couldn't do it.

Sleeping in the open was suicide. Sleeping on a platform three feet off the ground was madness. Anyone could come in. Anyone could grab me.

I grabbed two pillows and the heavy duvet. I dragged them across the polished floor.

I opened the closet.

It was a walk-in. Filled with empty hangers. Smelling of cedar. It was small. Enclosed. Dark.

Defensible.

I made a nest on the floor, behind the rack of hangers. I curled up into a ball. My back pressed against the solid wood of the wall. The butter knife gripped tight in my hand.

This felt right. This felt like the Dregs. Safe. Cramped. Hidden.

I closed my eyes. Listening to the hum of the ventilation. Waiting for the nightmares to come.

Click.

The lock on the main door disengaged.

My eyes snapped open. I stopped breathing. Heart slammed against my ribs.

Heavy footsteps entered the room. They weren't the rhythmic march of a patrol. They were slow. Heavy. Padding on the rugs.

"Neoma?"

The voice was deep. Rumbling like distant thunder in my chest. Viggo.

I gripped the butter knife. Knuckles white. I pressed myself harder into the corner of the closet. Maybe he would think I wasn't here. Maybe he would leave.

The footsteps moved to the bathroom. Then to the bed. A pause.

"Gone?" he muttered. A note of panic spiked in his voice. "No. Bind is active. Heartbeat is... here."

He moved closer to the closet.

He could smell me. Or hear me. Or maybe the Bind told him exactly where I was.

The closet door handle turned.

Light flooded my sanctuary. Blinding. Sudden.

I flinched. Raising the butter knife in a pathetic defensive stance.

Viggo stood there. He had showered. His auburn hair was damp and hanging loose around his shoulders. He wore loose training pants and a tight black shirt that strained against his chest.

He blinked. Looking down at me huddled in the nest of stolen blankets. Brandishing a piece of silverware at a man who could punch through steel.

He didn't laugh. He didn't drag me out.

He just tilted his head. His golden eyes wide with genuine confusion.

"Why are you sleeping with the shoes?" he asked.