Heir in Exile by Danielle Bourdon Page B

proved to be locked when she tried the handle. Stifling a curse, she felt around the top of the door frame for a key. It was a long shot, and Chey wasn't surprised when she came up empty.
    The alcove at least provided protection from falling snow, but not the cold, which meant she needed to get inside somehow. Using her shoulder, she banged against the door, counting on the building being too big and the basement being vacant to hide the noise. She bounced off with no luck and tried again, this time with more force. Closed tight, made of heavy wood, the door didn't budge.
    Exhausted from her long trek in bad weather, Chey leaned on the wood for a second and got her breath. Her bones ached, her stomach demanded food and water, and she was sure that if she didn't get the door open, she might die in the alcove of exposure.
    Stepping back, she kicked at the door near the lock. A hard, sharp kick that rewarded her with a slight splintering sound. Two more kicks was all it took to bust the latch. The door creaked inward.
    Chey put her shoulder against it and opened it further, stepping into the gloom.
     
    . . .
     
    The basement, this section of it anyway, looked to be used only on rare occasions. There was a large pile of cut firewood against the far wall, several benches with remnants of craft projects on the surface, and a few metal tool chests half as tall as Chey. Bins that appeared to have holiday decorations lined another wall, each marked by the color of the lid.
    Squinting into the shadows, Chey figured the basement to be as big as her apartment back in Seattle, with several doors leading to different sections and one that, miraculously, opened onto a bathroom. With extreme caution, she explored the basic layout, finding the space clean if dull. The concrete floor lacked dirt or debris, which told Chey that someone came down here at least once a month to sweep.
    The small bathroom, with only a sink, a toilet and a cupboard was in working order. Chey took care of business quickly, glad to have some relief where that was concerned. After drying her hands on a few paper towels, she exited the bathroom and sought a pile of moving blankets to raid. She dragged one into a shady recessed area and curled down on it, desiring a buffer between her body and the cold cement. Bringing the duffel bag around to her lap, she eased the zipper open and rooted around for water. She'd consumed one bottle during her trek; three remained. Gulping half the contents, she set it aside and ripped into one of the trail bars, hugging her arms around her while she chewed. It was cold down here. Not as cold as the outside, but frigid enough to make Chey wonder how much protection the basement would provide. The hem of her jeans was wet and unlikely to dry unless she found some place a little warmer.
    For now she ate, consuming a piece of beef jerky after the trail bar. Stuffing any trash back into the duffel bag, she zipped it closed and wrapped her arms around herself, desperate to chase the chill away. Wary of discovery, Chey found it difficult to sleep. She knew she needed to rest while she could, before going back on the run. It was daunting when someone upstairs might decide on a whim to visit this part of the basement. The thought of being at fate's mercy wasn't an enticing one.
    Chey wondered where Sander and Mattias were. What happened that they sent her fleeing from the safety of the cabin? She imagined all manner of horror, compliments of the King. Aksel must have had some other trick up his sleeve like the brothers thought. Chey didn't know whether to head for the coast or to stay lost for another few days in the forest region. If the storm persisted, it would make travel, and survival, difficult. As soon as the weather cleared enough, she should be able to raise the GPS and find her way to the shore. The question was whether Aksel knew she was here—which seemed likely, considering the voices she'd heard in pursuit—and would be waiting,