Gillen gazed at her, brows drawn together, and she could see the wheels turning behind the piggy eyes. “I’m gonna take my time on this, know what I mean? I don’t want them others to come and interrupt.” He turned to his horse, dug into his saddlebag, and pulled out a coil of cording.

“Come on.” He shoved her roughly, sending her stumbling toward the cave. Another shove and she was inside, on her hands and knees, the rock and ice on the floor of the cave slicing into her palms. She quickly turned and gathered herself into a crouch. He loomed in the doorway, blotting out what little light there was.

“I’m going to tie you up and come back later,” he said, walking toward her, slapping the coil of cord against his hip. “I want to give you time to think about what’s gonna happen.”

Raisa debated, her thoughts seeming to reverberate inside her skull. There was the unlikely chance she could get free before Gillen returned. There was also a chance she’d freeze to death before he came back.

Freezing to death wasn’t a bad way to die. It seemed preferable to what Gillen had in mind.

But if she allowed herself to be bound up, she’d have given up any chance of fighting free. She was the descendant of Hanalea, the warrior queen. She would not die bound hand and foot in a cave. Or ravished and tortured to death by this traitorous lowlife.

She lifted both hands in appeal. “All…all right. Just don’t hurt me.”

Gillen focused on her left hand, on the heavy gold wolf ring on her forefinger. “Gimme that ring,” he said. “I need something to take back, to prove you’re dead.”

Raisa pulled on the ring, struggling with it. “It’s too tight,” she said. “It won’t come off.”

“We’ll see about that,” Gillen said. “I’ll cut it off if I have to.” His hand snaked out, and he seized her left wrist, yanking at the ring with his right hand.

Raisa straightened her arm, allowing Byrne’s dagger to fall free of her right sleeve. She had to catch it, and she did, gripping the Lady hilt. Gillen was focused on the ring, wrenching at it, swearing.

Raisa rammed the blade through soiled wool and the soft flesh of his belly, up under the rib cage, as far as it would go, until the crosspiece rested against his shirt.

He screeched and let go of her hand. He tried to shove back from her, but she followed, keeping pressure on the blade with both hands now, twisting it with all her strength, knowing she’d have one chance, and one chance only, to deliver a killing stroke. If he survived the first one, she’d live to regret it, but not for very long.