“Shut it, healer whore,” a cold voice hissed into her ear. “Scream again, and you’ll regret it.”

Kiva stopped struggling, recognizing the voice. The moment she did, the arms released her, and Kiva stumbled away from her captor—Cresta, the leader of the prison rebels.

“Uh-uh, not so fast,” Cresta said, her tone threatening enough to halt Kiva in her tracks. “You and I need to have a chat.”

Trembling all over—and not just from the cold water pebbling her skin—Kiva straightened to her full height. Heedless of her nakedness, she placed her hands on her hips and demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Cresta tossed her red hair over her shoulder, the matted twists no longer hiding the full outline of the serpent tattoo coiling down the left side of her face. “I told you, we need to talk.”

Kiva weighed up her options before realizing she had none. Cresta was a quarrier, one of the rare exceptions who had arrived as a teenager and lived longer than anticipated, having survived Zalindov for five years so far. With arms as thick as Kiva’s thighs and the rest of her body rippling with muscle, the young woman was built like a bull—and she acted like one, too. Other prisoners might be too exhausted to cause much trouble, but Cresta reveled in it, actively going out of her way to whisper rumors and start fights. Almost all of the riots that had transpired in the last five years had been incited by her, though she was smart enough to make sure someone else always took the blame. Just as she was smart enough to keep from being outed as the leader of Zalindov’s rebels. While it was assumed she held that position, there was no evidence, nothing the guards could act on.

Warden Rooke needed information. If Kiva played her cards right, maybe Cresta would slip up and give something away, something Kiva could use to continue proving her worth as an informant.

“Talk about what?” Kiva asked, her trembles turning to full-body shakes in the freezing air.

“For pity’s sake, put your clothes on,” Cresta said, sneering. “I don’t need to see”—she waved her hand and pulled a face—“all that.”

Kiva bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that Cresta could have wrestled her before she’d entered the shower, or even after she was done, but she didn’t want to risk angering the woman. If it came to a physical fight, Cresta would win, with ease.

Quickly dressing, Kiva felt only slightly more comfortable as she turned back to the quarrier. She opened her mouth to demand an answer, but Cresta beat her to it.

“Word around the prison is that the Rebel Queen is here, and that she’s sick.”

Kiva said nothing, unsurprised that Cresta knew. She had almost as many spies as the Warden.