Seventeen
She lay in a bed that wasn’t hers, staring at a ceiling that wasn’t familiar. It was too ornate, carved into shapes she couldn’t make out because the light wasn’t good enough. She heard movement in the shadows. Uneasily she turned toward it. “Who’s there?”
“Willow.”
She knew his voice, even before his face emerged from the shadows, went from uneasy to terrified in a heartbeat.
Dark Lord.
The pale glow of his eyes pinned her in place, left her with nothing to do but watch him walk toward her.
“I don’t want to die,” she told him.
He stopped by the bed. “Willow.”
As if she were a wild animal instead of his next victim, he bent and touched her hand. Her flesh shrank from his touch. He looked at her and she knew there was something he wanted her to understand.
“What? What do
