Panic swept through him, like a lightning bolt arcing through every limb. This wasn’t a negotiation—this was a distraction. He’d been right before. Jamal was wasting his time. Intentionally.

Thorne dropped the cooling pack and launched himself out of the chair, grabbing the cane. He was at the door in two strides, his hand fumbling for the knob, yanking open the door.

“Cress!” he yelled, trying to remember how many doors they’d passed to get to Jamal’s room. He was turned around, unable to remember which side of the hall his and Cress’s room had been on to begin with. “CRESS!” He stormed down the hall, pounding aimlessly on the walls and doors he passed.

“Can I help you, Master?”

He spun toward the female voice, his optimism thinking for a second that it was her, but no. The sound was too airy and fake, and Cress called him Captain.

Who would call him Master?

“Who’s that?”

“My previous master called me Darling,” said the voice. “I’m your new escort-droid. The house rules gave my former master a choice of returning your earnings to you, or accepting your offered trade. He chose the trade, which means that I am now your personal property. You seem stressed. Would you like me to sing a relaxing song while I rub your shoulders?”

Realizing that he was gripping his cane like a weapon, Thorne shook his head. “Room eight. Where is it?”

He heard a couple doors open down the hallway.

“Cress?”

“What’s all the noise about?” said a man.

Someone else started talking in that language Thorne didn’t recognize.

“Here’s room eight,” said the escort. “Shall I knock?”

“Yes!” He followed the sound of her knocking and tested the knob. Locked. He cursed. “CRESS!”

“Can we keep it down out here?”

“I’m afraid I’m programmed to avoid destruction of property, so I am unable to break down this door for you, Master. Shall I go to the front desk and retrieve a key?”

Thorne pounded at the door again.

“She’s not in there,” said Jamal from down the hall.

That other language again, fast and annoyed.

“Shall I translate, Master?”

Growling, Thorne marched back toward Jamal, his cane whipping against the corridor walls. He heard yelps of surprise as people ducked back into their rooms to avoid being hit. “Where is she? And don’t try to tell me she’s out enjoying a pleasant meal in town.”

“And what will you do if I won’t tell you? Propose a staring contest?”

He despised that his alarm was showing, but every word raised his temperature, degree by boiling degree. It seemed like hours since he’d so flippantly said good-bye to Cress, when she was still in the bath, when her singing was still echoing in his ears. And he’d left her. He’d just left her—and why? To show off his gambling skills? To prove that he was still self-sufficient? To prove that he didn’t need anyone, not even her?

Every moment that stretched on was agony. They could have taken her anywhere, done anything to her. She could be alone and frightened, wondering why he hadn’t come for her. Wondering why he’d abandoned her.

He lashed out, his hand thwapping Jamal in the ear. Surprised, Jamal tried to duck away, but Thorne had already grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him closer. “Where is she?”

“She’s no longer your concern. If you were so attached, I guess you should have kept a better eye on her, rather than running off and flirting with the first steel-boned escort that passed by.” He placed a hand over Thorne’s. “She saw that, you know. Saw that escort hanging all over you downstairs. Looked pretty shaken up by the sight. Didn’t even hesitate when Jina offered to take her away.”

Thorne gritted his teeth as blood rushed to his face. He couldn’t tell whether Jamal was lying, but the thought of Cress seeing him gambling with that escort-droid, and having no idea what he was really doing …

“See, it’s all just business,” continued Jamal. “You lost her, we took her. At least you got a pretty new toy out of the deal, so try not to feel too upset.”

Grimacing, Thorne tightened his grip around the cane and brought it up as hard as he could, right between Jamal’s legs.

Jamal roared. Backing up, Thorne swung the cane toward his head. It cracked hard, but was quickly jerked out of his hand as Jamal let off a stream of curses.

Thorne reached for the gun that had been nearly forgotten since he and Cress had left the satellite. He pulled it from his waistband and took aim. Screams from the other people in the hall bounced down the corridors, followed by the slamming of doors and the pounding of feet on the stairway.

“From this distance,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I can hit you a few times. I wonder how many shots I can get in before I get a fatal one.” He listed his head. “Then I guess I’ll just take your portscreen, which probably has all your business contacts in it. You said something about a doctor in … Fara-whatta? I guess we’ll try him first.”

He released the safety.

“Wait, wait! You’re right. They were taking her to Farafrah, just a tiny oasis, about three hundred kilometers northeast of here. There’s some doctor there who has a thing for Lunar shells.”

Thorne took a step back into the hallway, though he kept the gun up and ready. “Escort-droid, you still there?”

“Yes, Master. Can I be of assistance?”

“Get me the coordinates of a town called Farafrah, and the fastest way to get there.”

“You’re an idiot to go after her,” said Jamal. “She’ll already be sold, and that old man isn’t going to pay for her twice. You should just cut your losses and move on. She’s just a Lunar shell—she isn’t worth it.”

“If you honestly believe that,” said Thorne, stowing the gun again, “then you really don’t recognize true value when you see it.”

Thirty-Three

Cress crouched in the corner of the van, gripping her knees against her chest. She was trembling, despite the sweltering heat. She was thirsty and hungry and her shins were bruised where they’d collided with the van’s ledge. Though she’d pulled down the bolts of fabric to sit on, the constant jerking of the truck on the uneven ground made her backside ache.

The night was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her thoughts were too erratic as she tried to discern what these people wanted with her. She’d played the moments before her capture over in her head a hundred times, and Jina’s expression had definitely lit up when Cress had confirmed Jina’s suspicions.

She was a shell. A worthless shell.

Why had Jina sensed value in that?

She racked her brain, but nothing made sense.

She tried her best to remain calm. Tried to be optimistic. Tried to tell herself that Thorne would come for her, but doubts kept crowding out the hope.

He couldn’t see. He didn’t know where she’d gone. He probably didn’t even know she was missing yet, and when he found out … what if he thought she’d abandoned him?

What if he didn’t care?

She couldn’t forget the image of Thorne sitting at that card table with some strange girl draped over him. He hadn’t been thinking about Cress then.

Perhaps Thorne wouldn’t come for her.

Perhaps she’d been wrong about him all this time.

Perhaps he wasn’t a hero at all, but just a selfish, arrogant, womanizing—

She sobbed, her head cluttered with too much fear and anger and jealousy and horror and confusion, all of it writhing and squirming in her thoughts until she couldn’t keep her frustrated screams bottled up any longer.

She wailed, scrunching her hair in her fists until her scalp burned.

But her screams died out fast, replaced with clenched teeth as she attempted to calm herself again. She rubbed her fingers around her wrists as if she had long strands of hair to wrap around them. She swallowed hard in an attempt to gulp down the rising panic, to keep herself from hyperventilating.