“You didn’t poison his drink, did you?” I ask her. “No,” she says. “Though I was tempted.” I put my hands on her shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscle at the base of the neck until she relaxes slightly. She turns to face me. “I don’t like him,” she says, dark eyes fixed on my face. “He reminds me of my father—that same edge of madness. He’s got one foot in the real world, and one in his own head.” I sigh. “I wish you were there to tell me that in the prison camp.” Sloane stands on tiptoe to bring her lips to mine. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Your alliance with him is over. We can be
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