Weak...

I’ve never met a feebler female.

Don’t like him, his opinion doesn’t matter.

As she lifted the lid from each dish, the scents intensified, and so did the grumbles in her stomach. She discovered creamy pasta with flakes of crabmeat, a bacon-wrapped filet with butter-drenched asparagus on the side, a strawberry-and-spinach salad, and a bowl of French onion soup. But her favorite? The pecan pie soaked in melting vanilla ice cream. Baden might be a bastard, but he was a bastard with excellent taste buds.

She inhaled the dessert first, shoveling in bite after bite. The pasta received the same treatment, and by the time she cleared the plate, she was moaning with discomfort, so full she might pop.

Battling a stomachache, she changed into the new clothes: a pair of shorts and a pink T-shirt that read “William Approved.” Both were a little too snug, but she’d have an easier time moving in them.

She’d make him regret the gift.

She padded to the door. She could pick the lock as she’d done at Alek’s home, but why? Baden would stop her. Maybe she could prevent him from getting in, at least for a little while, and figure out her next move without fear he’d harm her any second.

She struggled and strained to pull the dresser in front of the entrance, and finally succeeded. Not the best barricade, but adequate.

Her mind raced as she worked on liberating another nail. Considering Baden had accomplices, the more ammunition she acquired the better. But the stomachache only intensified, eventually welcoming bone-deep fatigue. Her adrenaline began to crash, her limbs growing heavier, until they weighed a thousand pounds each.

Don’t fall asleep. Don’t you dare fall asleep.

Sleep, even a light doze, would leave her vulnerable. The very reason she’d only catnapped since Alek entered her life.

Her best option for escape? The balcony. After stuffing the nails and the vial in her pocket, she dragged the comforter to the balcony doors. If she could get outside, she could flag help. She wrapped a pillow around her fist and punched, punched, punched. Finally a section of glass shattered. The tinkling sound was muffled, thanks to the comforter she’d draped, but it still made her cringe. She waited one minute, two, a seeming eternity, unable to breathe.

Baden never reentered the room. Was he even nearby? Or had he taken off, leaving her to rot?

She removed as much glass as possible and shimmied through the opening. Hot summer air had turned the entire area into an oven. She stood, expecting to see wrought iron, but the bright rays of sunshine highlighted six-foot-tall brick walls with ivy spilling over the sides. Tristo hrmenych! The balcony was completely surrounded by the brick, in fact. She could see no one, no other room and no other balcony.

She’d have to climb the wall to catch someone’s attention. Heart, don’t fail me now. She scaled up...up...using irregularities in the bricks as handholds and footrests. When finally she cleared the top, she straddled the ledge and held on for dear life.

Don’t you dare look down.

She looked down, and oh, wow, her heart failed her, shuttering in her chest. She was a million flights up. Cars looked like ants and people mere specks. If she fell, she would become the definition of splat.

Sweat beading over her skin, she scanned the C-shaped building. Most of the window drapes were drawn. The few balconies within range were guarded only by wrought iron, not brick. A point in her favor. But no one stood—wait! A woman stepped onto the balcony to Katarina’s right.

A striking twentysomething with shoulder-length black hair, the ends straight as a pin but uneven, as if she’d cut the strands with a kitchen knife—and no mirror. She had a strong, angular face and an equally strong body. The kind Baden preferred? Her black tank top put her toned biceps and the black bands wrapped around them on display. Bands just like Baden’s. An American fashion statement?

Both of her arms were tattooed, but from this distance, Katarina couldn’t catalog the designs.

A cigar rested between the woman’s lips, black smoke curling around her. In one hand, she clutched a glass of amber liquid. In the other, she clutched a bottle of amber liquid.

“Madam!” Katarina whisper-yelled, waving her arms. “Madam!”

Eyes of indeterminate color focused on her.

“Potrebujem pomoc. Zavolajte políciu!” The words left in a rush. Speak English! Right. “My name is Katarina Joelle, and I need help. I’m being held prisoner by a man named Baden. He’s a killer. Call the police—”

The woman stubbed out her cigar, turned around and entered her room, shutting the door behind her. Without ever speaking a word.