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My bad arm throbs. My shoulder burns like fire is melting me from the inside out. I crouch and reach through the bars with my good hand. My fingers can’t quite brush the keys.

A little comedy from the universe.

I stretch for them, pushing through the pain that makes my teeth chatter. My fingertips scrape metal, and the ring slides a fraction.

I reach again. My fingers finally hook it. Then my grip fails. The keys slip and clatter against the floor.

I freeze, listening for footsteps.

Nothing.

“Come on,” I hiss to myself.

I reach again. My good hand closes around the ring. But the angle is wrong. To pull them up, I lean my body into the bars, and that shift sends a bolt of pain through my bad arm so violent my vision darkens.

I breathe through my teeth. I think of Zaiya.

My fingers close around the keys. I drag them towards me, inch by inch, until the ring catches on the bar and jerks out of my grasp again.

“Fuck,” I growl.

I don’t have time for this.

I shove my hand through, grab the ring hard enough to tear my already-split knuckles, and rip it back.

Pain and adrenaline shake through me as I clutch the keys tight.

The lock is on the outside. The keyhole is low. I reach through, forcing my bad arm to behave long enough to hold my body upright while my good hand fumbles with the ring. My fingers don’t want to cooperate. They’re slick with sweat and blood.

I try one key. Wrong.

Try another. Wrong.

A third. It catches.

The lock turns with a heavy click and I push the cell door to the side.

Freedom.

Before I go anywhere, I pop my shoulder back into place. I grit my teeth and grunt through the pain, but I don’t have time to waste on this.

I step over the guard’s body and run. The corridors are a maze meant to keep secrets, but I’ve walked them for years. I know the underbelly of this hotel. Its dark halls and hidden rooms.

Time moves differently down here. I don’t know how much has passed. An hour? Two? It doesn’t matter. I need to find her.

I sprint through hallways that curve and branch like veins. Doors I’ve never used before. Stairs that climb and drop. A place not meant to be moved through with ease.

My bad arm stays pressed to my chest and I bite down on every sound that tries to escape. Pain attempts to blind me, but I’ve dealt with far worse.

The ritual chamber is empty. Everything put away and wiped clean, leaving no evidence of the spectacle.

I check holding rooms, any chamber I can find. All empty.

If Patrick has taken her anywhere, it’s not down here. It’s up there. Where he can do whatever he wants without witnesses who might grow a conscience.

His suite.

I rush to the private elevator. It’s the slowest fucking ride of my life.