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Scarlet’s (you) sleep was restless, filled with thaumaturges and prowling wolves. When she managed to pull herself from the daze, she saw that two trays of food had been left for her. Her stomach growled upon seeing them, but she ignored it, instead rolling over and curling up on the filthy mattress.

The scanner beeped in the hallway and the door clanked open. Scarlett rolled onto her back and froze. Wolf was standing in the doorway, having to duck his head to keep from hitting the frame. His eyes pierced through the darkness, but they were the only thing about him that hadn’t changed. His once messy, spiky hair had been combed off his brow, making his handsome features appear too sharp, too cruel. He’d washed the dirt from his face and now wore the same uniform she’d seen on the other soldiers: a maroon shirt and rune-decorated guards on his shoulders and forearms. A series of belts and sashes held empty holsters—she briefly wondered if wolf preferred to fight without weaponry or if he simply hadn’t been allowed to bring any guns into her cell.

She leaped off the bed, instantly regretting it as the world titled beneath her and she had to brace herself against the wall. Wolf remained silent, watching until their gazes clashed across the room—his dark and expressionless, hers growing more hateful, more angry by the second.

“Scarlet.” A hint of a struggle crossed his face.

Her revulsion tore through her and she screamed, she had no memory of crossing the room, but the crunch of her fists as they struck his jaw, his ear, his chest thundered up her arms.

He allowed her five strikes with nothing more than a grimace before stopping her. He caught her wrists mid-swing, holding them fast against his stomach.

Scarlet reeked back and aimed her heel for his kneecap, but he whipped her around so fast she loot balance and found herself facing away from him, her arms locked in his grip.