When she glanced up again, Holt was right in front of her. “Zylah,” he breathed, as she fell into his arms. “What have they done to you?” Zylah couldn’t speak. All she could do was lean into Holt, breathing in his reassuring scent and willing herself not to fall apart. She felt his hands pass over her back; he was trying to heal her. “Cuffs,” she murmured. Holt held her closer. “How long?” he asked, his breath hot in her hair. “Three days.” “Shit.” He lifted her just as she was, wrapping her legs around his waist so her front pressed against his, careful not to touch her back.
