He won’t break me.

“Where’s Gus?” I ask, bracing for the worst possible answer.

Raiden’s smile returns. “My questions first.”

He hisses a word, sending a draft rushing toward me.

I square my shoulders, expecting pain—but the breeze is feather soft and warm as sunlight. It drapes around my body like silk and sinks under my skin, calming my nerves, easing my aches. Even the windslicer gash on my side—a wound left over from my confrontation with Raiden in Death Valley—seems to dull under its bandage.

A sigh escapes my lips and Raiden’s smile widens. “Better?”

I give him a nod, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

The draft is a ruined Southerly, robbed of its will and its voice, and no more than Raiden’s slave.

I hate myself for drawing comfort from it.

But it’s so nice to be warm.

“I’m glad,” Raiden says, and I’m surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Regardless of what you may think, Audra, I want you to be comfortable here.”

I want to tell him that he shouldn’t have left me trapped like a flightless bird in a frozen cage. But the words stick in my throat when I meet his eyes.

He’s looking straight at me, studying me with an intensity that makes my cheeks flame.

“A short red dress seems like a strange choice for such a fierce warrior.” His gaze travels over my body, making my face burn even hotter. “Dressing to impress?”

“Are you impressed?”

I don’t know where the question came from, but I want to suck the words back as soon as they leave my mouth—and kick myself for saying them.

Especially when Raiden says, “Incredibly. I see so much of your mother in you.”

He stalks closer, running his hands down the bars. “I don’t use this tower cell often. But I couldn’t lock you away in a dim, filthy dungeon. You’re too . . .”

“Too what?” I whisper, not realizing I’ve moved forward until I feel my knees graze the frost-coated bars.

I’m so close now that I can see the blond stubble that lines his jaw, and the blond lashes rimming his ice-blue eyes.

His features aren’t handsome, but there’s something striking about him.

Something powerful.

My hands curl into fists when I realize what I’m thinking, and I shake my head to clear it. But the sweet, soothing wind is making everything spin too fast.

Or maybe it’s Raiden’s piercing stare.

“You’re different,” he whispers. “Most prisoners I can read in an instant. But you . . .”

He licks his lips, and my stomach turns sour even as my heart starts racing.

I want to look away but I can’t. His gaze is the only thing keeping me from melting with the rushing warmth.

He reaches through the bars and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I should flinch away, but I’m rooted to the floor. A tree clinging to the earth as a storm rages around it.

“If I told you that you belong as a queen, what would you say?” he asks.

My breath catches.

I can see myself sitting on a gleaming throne. And beside me stands . . .

I rub my head, trying to concentrate on the man beside me, but he’s blurry and shifting.

Old one second.

A boy the next.

Blond, then dark haired. Stolid, then smiling.

A jumble of contrasts I can’t make any sense of—but one feels warm and safe, like the wind whipping around me.

The other feels empty.

I don’t want to be empty anymore.

I try to focus on the man, try to wrap myself in the steadiness of his safety.

But I can’t forget the boy.

He materializes in my mind.

Beautiful.

Heartbreaking.

Why can’t he be mine?

“Perhaps that’s the wrong question,” Raiden says as I back against the wall and let the cold stones press against my skin.

I try to shove the fog from my thoughts, but it’s too heavy to lift, and my mind keeps drifting with the sweet, soft breeze.

“You love the wind, don’t you?” Raiden asks.

“The wind is all I need.”

I laugh when I hear the words out loud.

I’ve said them in my head hundreds of times, and at some point I must’ve believed them.

But can the wind ever really be enough?

Can the wind fill the space between the things I’ve lost?

“You miss someone,” Raiden says.

It’s not a question, but I still answer.

“Yes.”

The confession is sharp as knives, and I realize that I’ve crossed my cell again. This time I must’ve crawled, because I’m on my knees, clinging to the bars like a child.

Raiden covers my hands with his. His skin is warmer than I expected. His grip comforting.

Protective.

“Who do you miss?” he asks, his voice as soft as his skin. “Who have you lost?”

“My father.”

Tears drip off my cheeks, and my hold tightens on the bars.

I don’t want to cry for my father—not here. Not with the man responsible for his death.

But is Raiden responsible?

I thought it was him—but with my head floating and the world spinning, I realize these warm hands wrapped around mine couldn’t belong to a killer.