"Samira," Jocelynn whispered again. The name came out of her like a breath punched from her lungs.
Her lady-in-waiting. The girl who'd been Ashlynn's double at the Summer Villa, who'd worn her sister's jewels and gowns. The girl Jocelynn had tutored and scolded and finally, somehow, had come to think of as a friend.
Samira was someone who understood, at least a little… She was someone who reminded Jocelynn of what she'd lost, and spending time with her had always helped to ease the pain of that loss. Until now.
Samira's pale green eyes met hers. They were wide and wet and full of something that Jocelynn, in her shock and fury, couldn't read. Shame, terror, and a silent, desperate plea, though Jocelynn couldn't say for what. Livid marks ringed her slender wrists where she clutched the sheet, the dark, finger-shaped bruises of a grip that hadn't been gentle.
Then Samira looked away.
"My lady," Samira whispered as she clutched the pillow. "My lady, I'm sorry, I…"
