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“It was only about eight years ago when I came across the Cardinal.” Her voice had gone flat again, emotionless. “He said he saw my potential—that my knowledge of herbs was unparalleled, that my skills were wasted on common sailors and merchants. He believed I could be great.”

She grimaced, the expression making her look older and wearier.

“And that he could give my brother and me the best life. He could provide Emir with education, tutors, everything I could never afford to give him on my own.”

“You agreed to work with him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Leila nodded, her movements sharp and decisive. “I thought he was my savior. A way out of the nightmare we’d been living. But it turned out to be yet another cage. A gilded one, I’ll admit—silk sheets instead of rough canvas, proper food instead of scraps, a clean room instead of a ship’s hold. Still a cage, though.”

Her hands clenched into fists, and for the first time since she’d started talking, real anger crept into her voice.

“The first time—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence because at that moment, they heard footsteps descending the corridor toward their cell.

The change in Leila was immediate and startling. Gone was the vulnerable girl sharing her painful past. In her place stood a confident woman. A professional.

“Are you ready?” she asked as she sprang to her feet, hurrying to her position by the wall. Her hands easily slipped into the open shackles and arranged them to look closed.

She brushed off the heavy conversation as easily as wiping dust from a table. But she had to—survival demanded it. She was clearly used to doing what she had to do at a moment’s notice.

So was he.

“Absolutely,” he answered, forcing his battered body to cooperate as he assumed his position against the wall. He let his head loll to one side, breathing slowly and evenly to mimic the rhythm of sleep while arranging his shackles to appear secure.

The footsteps grew closer, now accompanied by the sound of whistling.

As the guard’s key scraped in the lock, Gideon peered at him from beneath his lashes.

He recognized the man—one of the guards who had intervened to separate him from the fight the night before. Not the one who had kicked him or the one who had threatened Leila, but one of the others.

Poor bastard.

He felt a twinge of sympathy. The man was the enemy and had likely committed terrible acts in service to his masters. However, aside from the fact that he was standing between Gideon and freedom, he hadn’t done anything particularly foul that Gideon had witnessed.

But the company he kept would be his undoing.

The door swung open with a groan of old hinges, and the guard stepped inside. He was a large man, though not as big as Gideon, and he swayed on his feet as if half-drunk.

Fatal mistake.

The guard ignored Gideon altogether, focusing instead on Leila. He carried a wooden tray with two bowls and a water jug—the evening meal for his prisoners. But as he approached her still form, his steps slowed.

He threw the food bowl down next to Leila, but instead of turning to leave immediately, he lingered, watching her. His gaze traveled down her body with unmistakable hunger, and his breathing grew deeper and more deliberate.

Gideon started to tense up, his muscles coiling despite his efforts to remain still.

Not yet, he thought to himself. Stay still.

When the guard finally turned away from her, Leila sprang to her feet and drove a blade deep between his shoulder blades.

The guard’s eyes went wide with shock and pain. He opened his mouth to scream for help but managed only a short, strangled yelp before Leila stuffed the bloody rag she’d used to clean Gideon’s wounds into his open mouth, cutting off any further sounds.

The man’s hands clawed at the blade in his back, trying to reach it, but Leila pulled it out, letting him bleed out.

Gideon forced himself to his feet, needing one hand against the wall for support. But he managed to stay upright.

Together, they grabbed the dying guard under his arms and dragged him to where Leila’s shackles lay open. They locked the shackles around his wrists and left him there. Even if he survived—which seemed unlikely given the amount of blood pooling beneath him—he wouldn’t be going anywhere.