It never came.
Instead, my father’s boots crossed the deck. He knelt, a parody of paternal concern, and stroked a strand of hair from my face. The gesture made my skin crawl.
“Don’t be foolish, Savannah,” he said softly. “You know how this ends. I don’t want to see you hurt. But I will do what must be done.”
I let my head sag; the drugs pulling me under. I dreamed of Menace—his hands, his voice, the way he said my name—and woke up crying, the tears cutting clean tracks down my blood-streaked cheeks.
Callum saw and sneered. “Still pining for your hero? Cute. Bet he’s already dead.”
I ignored him, but the fear burrowed deep. I tried to reach Menace through our bond, tried to send a signal—pain, hope, anything—but the silver burned too hot, snuffing out any magic before it reached my heart.
The hours blurred into one another. At some point, the three men moved to a small compartment at the far end of the hold, their voices muffled by distance and doors. I let my body go slack, conserving what little strength I had.
When the door clanged open again, it was Callum’s boots, then his hands, hauling me upright.
“Showtime, princess,” he hissed. “Time to meet your future.”
He dragged me to my feet and marched me down the narrow aisle, every step a study in humiliation. At the threshold, Dominic and my father waited, their faces masks of contempt and expectation.
The cold air outside bit into my skin as they led me down the steps onto the tarmac. I squinted against the light, blinking through the pain. There were black SUVs waiting, men in suits and guns bracketing the convoy.
No sign of Menace. No cavalry. Only the three men who would decide what happened to me next.
I stumbled forward, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall. Even as the world shrank to a pinpoint, even as the silver gnawed at my bones, I held onto one thought:
I would not break.
Not here. Not for them. Not for anyone.
The first thing I registered was the scent—lilacs, maybe gardenia, something sharp and expensive that didn’t belong. Then the softness under my cheek: not scratchy wool, not linoleum or caked rubber, but a comforter so thick I could bury my entire arm in it and never touch the mattress. My head throbbed from every direction. My face pulsed in time with my heartbeat, each thrum reminding me of Callum’s handiwork. Even my teeth ached. I tried to move and found that, while the silver was gone, my wrists and ankles still burned with the memory of it. The room was sweltering; the lights above me glared like a stage set.
A shadow fell across the bed, and a meaty hand dug into my upper arm. I tried to jerk away, but my body wasn’t cooperating, and the hand had no intention of letting me. I was yanked upright so fast that black crept into the corners of my vision. My father’s face swam intofocus, only inches from mine. He looked rested, satisfied—like a man who’d just collected a particularly rare coin for his collection and couldn’t wait to show it off.
He said nothing, just appraised me. His eyes flicked to the cut on my cheek, the swollen lip, the red weals around my wrists where the silver had scorched me. Then, he shook his head in disappointment and released me so I collapsed onto the comforter again.
I became aware of the other men only when they spoke.
“Not much to look at, is she?” The voice came from behind me—Dominic. His words were cold, but what stuck was the hunger underneath. He circled to the foot of the bed, arms folded, mouth drawn into a thin line. His suit was an even darker black than my father’s, if such a thing was possible. “I thought you said she was—”
“She was,” my father replied, his gaze still pinned on me. “She just needs a reminder of who she belongs to. You know how it is with women.”
I tried to stand, but my legs gave out. The comforter caught me, or maybe I just folded into it, my head barely above my knees. My arms hung limp at my sides. My shirt was torn at one shoulder, exposing the bite mark at the crook of my neck.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “That needs to go.”
“Soon enough,” my father grumbled. “But not until the Council’s finished with it. Their protocols are archaic. You’ll see.”
Dominic looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. “How long will it take?”
“A week at most,” my father told him. “Provided she behaves.”
I tried to speak, but my mouth filled with the taste of old blood. I spat it onto the comforter—an insignificant rebellion, but the only one available. My father’s hand closed around my jaw, hard enough to make me see stars.
“None of that,” he hissed. “You’re going to make us proud, Savannah. You will not embarrass this family again.”
He punctuated the “again” with a slap—hard, not theatrical, and perfectly aimed to reopen the scab on my cheek. The shock blanked out my thoughts for a few seconds. When my mind cleared, I found I was still upright, his hand fisted in my hair, keeping my head from slumping forward.
A handkerchief appeared in my field of vision. Dominic. He held it at arm’s length, as though expecting I might try to bite him. “Wipe your face,” he said, the tone one of condescension and bored disgust.
