There was another option. This idea was probably as smart as walking off a cliff and hoping a cloud would appear and save her from plummeting to death. She needed to return to the Dom and get supplies without Kohl realizing she was there.

When she stepped away from the wall, turning south, she saw it—a poster glued to the side of a building, one of its edges flapping in the wind. It was the drawing of her, reproduced, with the reward amount for her capture printed in bold letters at the bottom.

She drew her hood over her head, pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth, but her breaths still came in sharp bursts and her hands still shook.

There were more posters lining the buildings along a dirt path as she wound her way down it and toward the Stacks. The posters diminished in frequency as she descended the hill into the south of the city, but there were still a few, some against the sides of cardboard houses and others strewn across the ground. Her own face stared at her from every corner. Every time someone looked at her, her hands flinched to her knives, certain that person would recognize her even with her hood drawn and her scarf shielding half her face.

She hurried now, wondering if any of the gangs or tradehouses had already heard that she’d failed at the job, that she no longer had Kohl’s protection—that they were free to do whatever they wanted to her.

Before she’d joined the Dom, the Jackals had tried to jump her into their gang, but she’d kept dodging them, too scared to put her life in their hands. Once she’d started working for Kohl, they’d always sent her cold, threatening glances, but until now, they could do nothing about it.

Once the Jackals found out about her failure, they would come after her with no fear of repercussions. She’d killed the baker in their territory, and they would want to punish her for it.

The thought frayed her nerves, making every shadow resemble the barrel of a gun. If they caught her off guard, she’d die at their mercy in an alley with no one to mourn her, like Mazir.

The lack of Kohl’s protection felt nearly tangible and dissolved all the bravery she’d gained in the past six years. If she failed to fix her mistakes, she’d never have his protection again, and worse, she’d lose him.

The anger on his face, the disappointment in his voice, were engraved in her mind. Losing the one person who’d given her another chance, who’d taken her from the streets where she would have died—the thought alone was like a stake through the heart.

No one was on the first floor of the manor when she entered, but she heard voices upstairs. She felt like an intruder in her own home, sneaking along the ghost-white walls, making her footsteps quiet as she slipped through Kohl’s empty office and into the side room that they used to brew poisons. She shut the door behind her with a soft click, her heart hammering out a countdown to when Kohl would reappear and kill her.