She opened her mouth to tell him she was okay, then shook her head again. Even though she knew she was safe here with him, she couldn’t tamp down her primal reaction to being locked in a room. Isabelle bolted from the couch, pushed past Thomas and ran to the door.

The warding spell felt heavy, viscous, as she slid her hand into it to try the knob. Thomas’s magick was strong. She could taste it on the back of her tongue like dark, fertile soil.

The door knob wouldn’t budge, of course. Thomas had keyed the spell to prevent her from turning or manipulating the door in any way. Her mind sought ways her water magick could counter it and came up empty.

“Thomas, don’t do this.” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Already done.”

She couldn’t spend the night locked in this room. She couldn’t. “What if”—her mind cast about for arguments—“what if Boyle shows up tonight and I’m locked in here with no escape? This could be dangerous.”

“The warding is set to register your emotions. If you’re fleeing for your life in absolute terror, the magick will know and allow you through.”

A key to the warding. Maybe she could turn it.

Isabelle opened the floodgate to her fears, allowing all her terror to come pouring forth. She remembered…a tiny, dark closet.

Sand washed mouth, or so it felt like. Pressing her tongue to the floor where Angela poured water under the door’s crack. Never enough, never enough. Stomach gnawing on itself from the inside. Searching jacket pockets for crumbs. Curling up in a corner with only two tattered coats and the smell of mothballs for company.

She remembered imagining she was one of those cave-dwelling insects she’d read about at school. They’d evolved without eyes since their world was constantly dark. Would she eventually lose her eyes, too?

But most of all, Isabelle remembered her sister’s tiny, child’s voice on the other side of the door. I can’t find the key, Isa, I can’t find it.

Her heart beat faster. Her breath came in short, hard little pants that stabbed her chest. Isabelle tried the door again and it opened a crack.

Thomas placed his hand near her head, palm flat against the door. He pushed it closed. “Is staying here tonight with me so frightening, Isabelle?” His voice was a low, silken murmur.

She closed her eyes and felt the prick of tears. Again she reminded herself that she wasn’t in that closet anymore. Now she was an adult, empowered, able to take care of herself. She was with a man who had never hurt her, would never hurt her. Indeed, he only wanted to protect her, would probably give his life to do so.

Thomas cared about her. He was one of the few in this world who did.