“Quite. Two girls from a fine house, cutting a path of destruction and depravity through the city. Hard not to take notice of something like that.” He steps closer to the bars. Close enough for me to reach out and grab, but I don’t. It wouldn’t gain me anything, and mostly, I don’t want to. Every fiber of my being screams at me to retreat, to hide deeper into the cell, to get away from him, but I stay where I am. I do not cower. Not before him. Not before any man. I don’t plan on starting now.

“But you’re not from a fine house, are you?” He’s so close now, I can smell him. Perfumed. Completely out of place in this rotten jail. “You live in one now, but you come from humbler stock, do you not?” He reaches out, his hand slowly approaching the bars. I want to flinch. I don’t. But it is a near thing, especially when his fingers graze my hair. “Such a beautiful girl. It’s a shame you insist on running amok and getting yourself into trouble.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” I say, grinding my teeth. His hand retreats, but the phantom sensation of it against my hair lingers. “It just has a habit of finding me.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Of course it does.”

“Why did you really come here? Not just to gawk, surely.”

“Not to gawk, no. To help, I assure you.”

“Help? Why the hell would you do that?”

“What can I say? I find your escapades riveting. Young women, taking on dangerous men. It’s the stuff of fiction, surely. And yet here you are. As real as anything.”

I lean in. The bars are cold against my cheeks and probably filthy with God knows what but I don’t care. I want him to know who I am.

“They may be dangerous men,” I say, low and vicious. “But we are dangerous women. And that is worth so much more.”

That mirthless, icy smile returns.

“Oh, you have not disappointed me, Ana.” I hate the way he says my name. Hate the way it sounds falling from his lips. “You have not disappointed me at all.”

He turns to leave, boots clicking against the stone floor with every step. But before he reaches the door, he tosses a handful of words carelessly over his shoulder, “I’ve paid your bail. No need to thank me.”

And with that, he’s gone.

The slamming of the door behind him is loud enough to finally rouse Kiki. She sits upright, the skin of her cheek indented with the pattern of the filthy hay. She probably has fleas now. We probably both do.

“What happened? What was that?”

I rest my forehead against the bars and groan.

“Honestly, Kiki? I have no goddamn clue.”

CHAPTER 22

Kiki