Solitude
He'll come for me.
It starts as a certainty, though Jessica doesn't realize it's there until she exhausts her own efforts at escape. Magic doesn't work here, and the guards took her dagger while she was still disoriented from being snatched up in a flash of light and shower of stones, but that doesn't prevent her from making their lives difficult. The waiting doesn't begin until she's out of ideas.
The guards are, she suspects, rather inconsistent in when they feed her, leaving no way to measure the days. Her sense of time is swallowed by darkness and boredom- not despair, because he'll come- until she can't tell if she's been in her cage moments, or a lifetime.
Maybe he doesn't know where to look for her.
Maybe he's not looking.
The first doubt is easy to push away, and Jessica rolls her eyes at her own foolishness. Of course he's looking, and of course he'll find her; the spell that snatched her up may have left no trail, but Angelo's stubborn and resourceful and he will track her down.
Unless he gets distracted, her thoughts whisper, eroding the certainty into mere hope. He could have half the women in Alexandria for the asking, after all.
Not that he would. The flirting is a game he plays; it has no more bearing on their relationship than his fondness for poker.
He'll come for me, Jessica tells herself, while her traitorous memory taunts her with an endless parade of reasons why he won't.
When his voice penetrates her sleep, she assumes it's another dream. But there's torchlight flickering across the bars of the cage, a precious rarity that makes her sit up and look around. The light hurts, but it's the sudden uprush of hope that makes her blink. "Angelo?"
"Who else?" he asks, the sound of his voice bringing tears to her eyes.
She brushes them away and stumbles to her feet. "I knew you'd come."
"Almost didn't, actually. You'd be amazed how many of the lovely young women of Alexandria..."he begins, the words cutting so close to her fears that by the time she registers the gently teasing tone, she's already hit him. He stumbles back, rubbing his forehead, hurt chasing surprise across his expression.
She should apologize, wants to apologize, but before she can get the words out he's smiling and complimenting her reflexes, and she knows he understands.
The lock finally clicks open. She's in his arms before she fully realizes she's free; his lips move against her tangled hair in what may be kisses or a silent prayer of thanks, and she presses herself against him and doesn't cry.