Camila stared at the room, suddenly eager to trade all its luxury for a dirt forest floor and two separate sleeping bags. The bed loomed menacingly from the center of the room. Spirals carved into the mahogany headboard seemed to glare at her, blaming her for finding herself in this situation.

Camila groaned. She closed her eyes. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she'd wake up, back at the palace, a few minutes late for a garden party.

When she opened her eyes, the bed was still there. It seemed even smaller.

"You can stop frowning. I'll take the floor," Declan said, peering into a kitchen cabinet. "Hey, we have popcorn!"

"Great. If only I could use my hands." Camila frowned. She would've expected Declan to take full advantage of the one bed.

"One second." He pulled out a cylindrical container and his eyes widened. Inside, Camila could see popcorn drenched in chocolate and caramel coating. "It's Reese's Peanut Butter flavored!"

Camila strode over to him and, with the limited mobility she had, grabbed the popcorn and wrenched it away.

"That's great!" she said, smiling with all her teeth. "You're not getting it back until I'm out of these handcuffs."

Declan crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Come here."

"Why?"

"So I can take the handcuffs off. That was what you wanted, right?"

Camila wished for the comforting weight of her knives. Without them, she felt vulnerable. Less confident. Every word she said and action she took—they all seemed to play out in Declan's favor.

If everything went well, that would change soon.

Camila stepped forward. "You're being awfully agreeable," she commented. Declan sighed, rolled his eyes, and strode over to her.

"I don't bite. And I'm very agreeable. It's one of my best qualities." He pulled a delicate silver key from his pocket. Swiftly, as if he'd done this before—which he probably had—he removed the handcuffs.

Camila flexed her wrists. "...Thanks." The word slipped out, an automatic reaction from years of studying etiquette.

Declan flashed her a brilliant grin. "You're welcome. I'm gonna go take a shower. Do you want to come?"

"Wh- No! Not even remotely." Camila groaned. "You're keeping me chained up while dragging me off to your criminal hideout so you can figure out whether to kill or ransom me. Why would you think that's a good idea?"

Declan scratched the back of his neck and winced. "...We're soulmates?"

"No."

With that, he sighed, turned, and walked into the bathroom. "You better not eat the popcorn!" he yelled.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Camila leapt into action. She started with the door that led to the rest of the hotel. Locked.

Not a surprise, but a disappointment.

She tried the duffel bag. It was a massive thing, made of thick, green canvas, every compartment sealed with an iron lock. Camila looked over the room, looking for something, anything, she could use as a set of lockpicks.

Maybe there were wires inside the television? Camila darted over to the massive flat-screen. Her fingers skimmed the back of the television, searching for a screw, an opening—no luck.

She tried the remote. Surely there must be a place for batteries, but the electronics must have been custom designed for the Vindicators. Apparently, they didn't want their prisoners to have even a scrap of wire.

Declan was still showering, the rush of the water a mellow roar in Camila's ears. Unbidden, an image flashed across her mind: the water streaming over their tanned skin, vapor fogging up the glass, and her body, pressed hard against the tiled walls, his lips on hers. She imagined the clothes scattered haphazardly across the room, torn off in a rage of pent-up lust, her shirt, crumpled on the floor beside the tattered remains of his pants, her bra dangling from the lampshade-

Her bra.

There was an underwire in her bra.

Camila tore off her shirt. She ran towards the duffel, slipped, tumbled, caught herself, and kept running. Her hands shook as she removed her bra.

The shower kept running. Camila let out a trembling breath. If he just stayed in there, for another few minutes, everything would work out fine.

Her bra was a lacy white thing she'd worn at the dance so long ago. It was soft, delicate, built for a princess rather than a runaway. Camila ripped the fabric and glimpsed the thin metal wire peaking out from the elaborate material. In another second, she had two serviceable lockpicks in her hands.

And no bra.

Camila tugged the shirt back on. A year ago, Alex and she had spent a week learning the art of lockpicking. He'd insisted on her joining him. At the time, Camila had asked why he cared so much.

"I can't lose you," he'd said, his voice soft. "You need to be able to protect yourself."

Camila had been passable. Better than Alex, at least, who, while he approached his studies with a fierce determination, had barely managed to pick a spring bolt lock.

The wire made a faint clicking sound in the lock. Camila tried one angle, then another. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

The shower shut off.

She was almost out of time. Camila took a deep breath, praying with all her heart to the Moon Goddess, and steadied her hands. The lock clicked open.

Thank Goddess.

Camila pulled the zipper, opening the duffel bag. Her eyes flick from one item to the next: there was a flashlight, a fire-starter kit, more knives than she'd had at home, medical tape, normal tape, everything in between-

And there, sandwiched between a sleeping bag and a shovel, was a burner phone.

Camila pulled it open. She'd memorized Alex's phone number, repeated it again and again and again until it was locked in her memory. She sent a quick text—noon, Paraíso Hotel, Manaus—then deleted the conversation.

Camila didn't have enhanced speed—not the way vampires did or even a werewolf without silver—but shoving the phone back next to the shovel, ripping the duffel bag closed, and cramming the torn up remains of her bra and the still-intact underwire under the bed, she felt as fast as a hungry cheetah, hunting down a gazelle.

The bathroom door opened. Declan glanced up and saw Camila—content and relaxed, lounging on the palatial king-sized bed, maybe breathing a little hard—and he smiled a hopeful smile.

"Hey," he said, his black hair dripping wet. "I was hoping we could talk."

Does anyone actually know how to pick a lock? Thank Goddess for Google because I don't know a thing about lockpicking!

Hey, thanks for reading! You're still here and it's been more than twenty chapters! I hope you get all of the Reese's Peanut Butter Popcorn that you could ever want.

-Harley