Morgan pauses at the doorway, turning back with eyes like frozen amber. "It's simple, really," she says, hatred lacing her words. "I have my own score to settle with your little vampire family. Consider this payback for what they did to mine, back when we served them."
Wait—what? My mind races through possibilities. Rhyland? Erik? Lucian? This could be useful. If I keep her talking, maybe she'll reveal something I can use.
"Who?" I soften my tone, letting curiosity mask my intent. "What happened to your family?"
Come on, spill your tragic backstory, you vindictive witch. Give me something I can work with.
"Ever heard of the Hawthorne witches?" Morgan seethes with generational venom. My blank look draws a bitter laugh. "Of course you haven't. Well, here's your history lesson, princess. Your precious vampires used my fourth-great grandmother, then threatened her into some bullshit treaty. We Hawthornes don't bow to anyone—especially not fucking vampires."
Raw hatred radiates from her, dropping the room's temperature several degrees—old wounds festering through generations.
I piece together this warped puzzle, choosing my words carefully. "Let me get this straight—you're throwing a tantrum over some ancient contract, and somehow that justifies using me as your revenge prop?" I arch an eyebrow. "And out of all possible allies, you picked the poster child for vampire daddy issues? Why Lilith?"
Morgan's smile turns vicious, triumphant. "Because Lilithwasthe treaty, you idiot. I freed her—breaking the chains your precious vampires put on her. You have no idea the depth of their sins. She's their Maker, the oldest, the strongest. And to get what I want?" Her eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction. "She's exactly the weapon I need."
Well, holy fucking plot twist.
Thepieces click together with sickening clarity. The treaty wasn't just paper and promises—it was a magical prison for Lilith herself. Now, this vindictive witch has unleashed her, all to settle a centuries-old blood feud.
Perfect. I'm caught in the crossfire of a revenge plot that's been brewing since before I was born, complete with a crazy vampire queen and her pet witch with an ancestral axe to grind.
"So you see," Morgan says with vindictive promise, "I'm done letting vampire assholes control my family legacy. Lilith and I have an... arrangement. One that works quite nicely for both of us."
My mind spins from Morgan's revelation, but before I can respond, she vanishes. The door seals shut with the finality of a tomb.
Oh, hell no.Pure adrenaline launches me at the door. I wrench the handle with enough force to send pain shooting through my shoulder. Locked. Because, of course, it fucking is.
Desperation sends me flying to the windows. My fingers skate across flawless glass, searching for any weakness, any escape route. Nothing. Just an endless expanse of smooth, impenetrable barrier between me and freedom.
"Goddammit!"
The bathroom becomes my last hope. There must be a vent, a window, any possible exit. But no, it's just another gilded cage, all marble, and luxury masking its true purpose as a prison.
The bedroom door hinges creak…
My heart stutters, then freezes. Lilith glides in like death-wearing couture, flanked by my "buyer" and Morgan. My own personal tribunal of nightmares, here to begin their show.
I retreat until my back hits the far wall, instinct screaming for an escape route that doesn't exist. One look at the buyer's hunger tells me exactly what kind of performance they're expecting.
Rhyland, where the fuck are you?
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, darling." Lilith's sing-song voice slides through the air. "We promise not to bite... much." Her laughter shatters the silence, sharp as broken mirrors. Morgan's spell coils around me, serpentine and cold, dragging me from my corner.
Silas's dried blood still maps my skin and dress, a crimson testament to earlier horrors. The buyer's gaze dissects me inch by inch, reducing me to meat at the market. His tongue sweeps across his lips—a predator's tell—and bile burns my throat. Power rolls off him in arctic waves, ancient and corrupt. Those aristocratic features might belong in a Renaissance painting if they weren't twisted by such raw hunger.
"Release the magical bindings," he commands."I want her unrestrained. I didn't pay eighty million for a fucking docile doll." Another slow lick of his lips. "I want every scream, every struggle."
Lilith flicks her wrist as if shooing a fly. "As you wish." Her casual permission lands like a death sentence.
Morgan's chains dissolve, leaving me unbound. I face my triumvirate of tormentors—Lilith's serpentine smile, Morgan's glacial indifference, and the buyer's ravenous anticipation. This newfound freedom is just another move in their game. They don't want a passive victim; they want the thrill of the hunt.
My muscles coil tight, every instinct screaming to run, to fight, even knowing both options lead nowhere. The buyer tracks my movements with practiced patience, a spider watching its web tremble.
His eyes promise torments that make my blood freeze. I've seen that look before in human monsters, but this is infinitely worse—this is a predator with immortal strength and centuries to perfect his craft.
"Wait outside," the buyer orders, his voice rough with anticipation. "I promise to keep her breathing."
My lungs seize as Lilith and Morgan share a silent exchange. They discuss my fate through looks alone while I stand here, a lamb watching butchers debate knife techniques. Rage and terror war in my chest, each fighting to escape in a scream.
