CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Hearing the key scrape in the lock Malice tightened her hold on the ewer. Not only had its contents been hideous to drink, it deserved to die. Cyril did too when he opened that door. One smash was all it would take, then she would get out of here. Kiss him first. Yes. Run next if that didn’t work. The door creaked back. She raised her arm. Why wait?
The strangled cry, the hard thud, the clunk of porcelain—she’d done it. One maddened smack was all it took. And having been kept here all night she was for giving that smack. As for getting out of here, all she had to do was get down on her hands and knees—numb, aching, frozen from such cold her teeth chattered—being very careful the porcelain shards didn’t puncture her palms and kiss him.