Page 129 of Pink Ink

Alcoves have been dug into the wall to house statues, giant vases, and armor. A thick velvet curtain hangs above each archway, tied on each side to create the illusion of windows.

I dart from alcove to alcove, pausing each time in case anyone decides to step into the corridor. Some of the curtains are closed to hide various artifacts for reasons I can’t explain. I use the hiding spot to catch my breath, then dash to the next one just as I hear a door opening. Footsteps carry down the hall toward me. Panic coils my muscles tighter and makes it harder to hear above the pulsing in my ears.

I don’t let myself overthink. I drop down onto my hands and knees to make myself as small as possible, clutching the taser and hoping I’m unnoticeable behind the marble slab.

Their steps are sure and unhurried—slow even. It’s torture.

Cold sweat sticks my clothes to my clammy skin. I hold my breath as the person passes, praying to whatever deity exists that I get out of here unscathed. I survived the catacombs and every murder scene I’ve ever visited. My luck is bound to run out eventually.

But not right now, apparently. The person waltzes right past without a hitch. A door opens, then closes, and the footsteps stop.

My shoulders sag, but the stroke of luck does nothing to calm my electrified nerves. I scramble onto my feet and peek into the hallway to double-check that there’s no one there.

With the coast clear, I bolt to the last alcove opposite the room where the sounds are coming from, slipping behind its curtain. The heavy drapes barely ripple when I inch them aside to peer through the glass doors. The blood rushes from my face as I lean down to get a clearer view into the room.

Rows upon rows of people—hundreds of them—sit inside, dressed in a black mask and cloak that covers them head to toe. The pews are set in blocks that narrow into the center, where a woman stands on a platformin the same robe, except she has two red ropes crossed over her body, and nothing concealing her face.

It looks like some kind of ritual with all the lit candles along the wall, scattered at the edges of the pews, and surrounding the dais.

My gaze flicks up to the roof, and my blood turns cold.

It’s here.

The honeycomb ceiling.

My hands shake as I scramble to retrieve my phone and locate the picture of my dad that I’ve spent hours looking at. My eyes dart from the screen to the molding and the ceiling on the other side of the doors, then back.

The one photo I have of my dad was taken here. Right beneath the golden filigree.

The room spins. I can barely breathe. What is this place? Why was my dad here? Why are Maddox and my dad connected to this?

This was a terrible idea. I need to get out of here.

A hand clamps over my mouth. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

REYNA

My heart lurches into my throat. I swallow down a scream. My elbow soars back into his ribs. He hisses and tightens his grip on me, pressing me flat against his chest directly behind the curtain.

“Remember how good you can be at following instructions?” Maddox whispers against my ear. “How about you do that again, huh, love?”

Betrayal crashes through me, hot and painful.

First, I found out he was engaged. Now, I have irrefutable confirmation that he’s connected to my dead father, and I was too busy being a lovesick puppy to see it clearly.

He’s lucky I’m not tasing him. I thrash against him, careful to keep as quiet as possible. My nails sink into his arms, and raw satisfaction flows through me at the sound of his strained grunt.

Maddox’s arm is covered in the same black cloak as the people inside, and that fact feels like another slap.

He pulls me harder against him, and my traitorous body forces me to suppress a shiver. He still smells heavenly, and it fucking hurts. I can’t give him a piece of my mind with his hand clamped over my mouth. So without second-guessing, I clamp my teeth down on his finger. I need him to hurt too.

This time, his grunt is less than lusty, but the way his other hand grasps at my clothes is making my heart send mixed signals to my frightened, rage-filled mind.

At this angle, I can peek between the gap of the curtain and see the congregation of people in the beehive room. The sounds of soft murmurings and the clink of utensils are growing louder.

“Reyna, calm down. I’m going to let go of you. It’s in your best interestnotto scream for help, because no one here will rescue you,” Maddox says, voice low.

I pale. What would his people do to me if they caught me here?