Regan rested the stick against the arches of Dorothy’s feet. Dorothy could feel every splinter of wood against her skin. Her muscles drew tight, waiting for the stick to be drawn back, for it to come cracking down against her feet . . .

Instead, Regan leaned down and murmured, low enough that Dorothy had to strain to hear her, “I’m told you have friends. People you care about.”

Dorothy closed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Chandra and Willis and Zora. Is that right?” She clicked her tongue. “It would be such a shame if something happened to them.”

When Dorothy said nothing, Regan flicked her wrist, bringing the stick down against her foot with a sharp crack. The wood nicked her skin, and Dorothy flinched, releasing a short, terrified yelp. But it didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it to. Regan must be saving the worst of the pain for later.

“Shall I go fetch them?” Regan asked. “Or will you tell me what I want to know?”

She leaned closer, until her masked face was only inches from Dorothy’s own. Dorothy could see nothing of her appearance, nothing except for two black, emotionless eyes.

Regan lowered her voice to a purr, like she was speaking to a lover. “Who are you working with, little Fox?”

Dorothy closed her mouth and then opened it again. “I’m working . . . with Princess Mary,” she managed to choke out.

Regan’s black eyes narrowed behind her mask. She drew her arm back, and Dorothy braced herself for the feel of the harsh wood against her feet—

And then the hotel room door crashed open, and a bullet whizzed past her cheek, close enough that she felt the burn of gunpowder flare across her skin. Donovan and Eliza released their hold on her, swearing as they took cover and reached for their own guns. Dorothy had just enough time to lift one hand to her face before the air filled with gunfire.

Blast. She rolled off the mattress and came to a crouch in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, heart hammering in her chest. There was an initial rush of bullets, and then brittle silence fell over the room like a layer of ash.

Dorothy braced herself, waiting. She didn’t know who was on the other side of the wall, or what they wanted from her. To be perfectly honest, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know. This spot right here, hidden behind the bed, this was perfectly fine with her, thank you very much. She closed her eyes and exhaled, silently, through her mouth. At least down here no one was shooting at her or torturing her.

But one minute became two and then—damn it to hell—her curiosity got the better of her. She was Quinn Fox, for God’s sake. She couldn’t be found crouching behind this bed, hiding like a child.