The drip wakes me.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It's a slow, maddening sound, like a clock ticking down to something awful. I jerk upright, my chest tight, sweat sticking my hair to my neck. The room's dim, a gray smear of shadows and damp walls. My hands fumble over the rough sheets—cotton, cheap, scratchy. I know this bed. I know this smell: mold and despair, thick enough to choke on.

I'm back in the servant's room.

My heart slams against my ribs. This can't be real. I died. I died. I remember the rope biting into my throat, the way Kastor's meaty paws yanked it tighter while Eric smirked, his pretty face twisted into something feral. Elena just stood there, sipping her wine, her red lips curled like she was watching a dull play. I screamed until my lungs burned, but the neighbors—those spineless worms next door—pretended they didn't hear. They never did. I wasn't the first girl those monsters chewed up and spat out.

So how the hell am I here?