“Welcome home,” Arobynn purred.

He beckoned them into the cavernous entry hall. “And welcome to your friends.” Aedion and Nesryn moved around the carriage to the trunk in the back. Her cousin’s nondescript sword was drawn as they opened the compartment and yanked out the chained, hooded figure.

“Your favor,” Aelin said as they hauled him to his feet. The Valg commander thrashed and stumbled in their grip as they led him toward the house, the hood over his head swaying this way and that. A low, vicious hissing noise crept out from under the coarse-knit fibers.

“I would have preferred the servants’ door for our guest,” Arobynn said tightly. He was in green—green for Terrasen, though most would assume it was to offset his auburn hair. A way to confuse their assumptions about his intentions, his allegiance. He wore no weapons she could see, and there was nothing but warmth in those silver eyes as he held out his hands to her, as if Aedion wasn’t now tugging a demon up the front steps. Behind them, Nesryn steered the carriage away.

She could feel Rowan bristling, sense Aedion’s disgust, but she blocked them out.

She took Arobynn’s hands—dry, warm, callused. He squeezed her fingers gently, peering into her face. “You look ravishing, but I’d expect nothing less. Not even a bruise after trapping our guest. Impressive.” He leaned closer, sniffing. “And you smell divine, too. I’m glad my gift was put to good use.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Rowan straighten, and she knew he’d slid into the killing calm. Neither Rowan nor Aedion wore visible weapons save for the single blade her cousin now had out—but she knew they were both armed beneath their clothes, and knew Rowan would snap Arobynn’s neck if he so much as blinked wrong at her.

It was that thought alone that made her smile at Arobynn. “You look well,” she said. “I suppose you already know my companions.”

He faced Aedion, who was busy digging his sword into the commander’s side as a gentle reminder to keep moving. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your cousin.”

She knew Arobynn took in every detail as Aedion came closer, pushing his charge before him; trying to find any weakness, anything to use to his advantage. Aedion just continued into the house, the Valg commander stumbling across the threshold. “You’ve recovered well, General,” Arobynn said. “Or should I call you ‘Your Highness,’ in honor of your Ashryver lineage? Whichever you prefer, of course.”

She knew then that Arobynn had no plans to let the demon—and Stevan—leave this house alive.

Aedion gave Arobynn a lazy grin over his shoulder. “I don’t give a shit what you call me.” He shoved the Valg commander farther inside. “Just take this rutting thing off my hands.”

Arobynn smiled blandly, unfazed—he’d calculated Aedion’s hatred. With deliberate slowness, he turned to Rowan.

“You, I don’t know,” Arobynn mused, having to lift his head to see Rowan’s face. He made a show of looking Rowan over. “It’s been an age since I saw one of the Fae. I don’t remember them being quite so large.”

Rowan moved deeper into the entry hall, every step laced with power and death, coming to a stop at her side. “You can call me Rowan. That’s all you need to know.” He cocked his head to the side, a predator assessing prey. “Thank you for the oil,” he added. “My skin was a little dry.”

Arobynn blinked—as much surprise as he’d show.

It took her a moment to process what Rowan had said, and to realize that the almond smell hadn’t just been coming from her. He’d worn it, too.

Arobynn flicked his attention to Aedion and the Valg commander. “Third door on the left—take him downstairs. Use the fourth cell.”

Aelin didn’t dare look at her cousin as he dragged Stevan along. There was no sign of the other assassins—not even a servant. Whatever Arobynn had planned … he didn’t want any witnesses.

Arobynn trailed after Aedion, his hands in his pockets.

But Aelin remained in the hall for a moment, looking at Rowan.

His brows were high as she read the words in his eyes, his posture. He never specified that only you had to wear it.

Her throat tightened and she shook her head.

What? he seemed to ask.

You just … She shook her head again. Surprise me sometimes.

Good. I’d hate for you to get bored.

Despite herself, despite what was to come, a smile tugged on her lips as Rowan took her hand and gripped it tightly.

When she turned to head into the dungeons, her smile faded as she found Arobynn watching.

Rowan was about a hair’s breadth from ripping out the King of the Assassins’ throat as he led them down, down, down into the dungeons.

Rowan kept a step behind Aelin while they descended the long, curving stone staircase, the reek of mildew and blood and rust growing stronger with each step. He’d been tortured enough, and done enough torturing himself, to know what this place was.

To know what sort of training Aelin had received down here.

A girl—she’d been a girl when the red-haired bastard a few steps ahead had brought her here and taught her how to cut up men, how to keep them alive while she did it, how to make them scream and plead. How to end them.

There was no part of her that disgusted him, no part of her that scared him, but the thought of her in this place, with these smells, in this darkness …

With every step down the stairs, Aelin’s shoulders seemed to droop, her hair seeming to grow duller, her skin paler.

This was where she’d last seen Sam, he realized. And her master knew it.

“We use this for most of our meetings—harder to eavesdrop or be caught unawares,” Arobynn said to no one in particular. “Though it also has other uses, as you’ll soon see.” He opened door after door, and it seemed to Rowan that Aelin was counting them, waiting, until—

“Shall we?” Arobynn said, gesturing toward the cell door.

Rowan touched her elbow. Gods, his self-control had to be in shreds tonight; he couldn’t stop making excuses to touch her. But this touch was essential. Her eyes met his, dim and cold. You give the word—just one damn word and he’s dead, and then we can search this house from top to bottom for that amulet.

She shook her head as she entered the cell, and he understood it well enough. Not yet. Not yet.

She’d almost balked on the stairs to the dungeons, and it was only the thought of the amulet, only the warmth of the Fae warrior at her back that made her put one foot in front of the other and descend into the dark stone interior.

She would never forget this room.

It still haunted her dreams.

The table was empty, but she could see him there, broken and almost unrecognizable, the scent of gloriella clinging to his body. Sam had been tortured in ways she hadn’t even known until she read Wesley’s letter. The worst of it had been requested by Arobynn. Requested, as punishment for Sam’s loving her—punishment for tampering with Arobynn’s belongings.

Arobynn sauntered into the room, hands in his pockets. Rowan’s sharp sniff told her enough about what this place smelled like.

Such a dark, cold room where they’d put Sam’s body. Such a dark, cold room where she’d vomited and then lain beside him on that table for hours and hours, unwilling to leave him.

Where Aedion now chained Stevan to the wall.

“Get out,” Arobynn said simply to Rowan and Aedion, who stiffened. “The two of you can wait upstairs. We don’t need unnecessary distractions. And neither does our guest.”

“Over my rotting corpse,” Aedion snapped. Aelin shot him a sharp look.