He slides in next to me, the door thudding shut, sealing us in. The lock engages.
I shrink against the far door, hugging my knees to my chest. I look at him. He’s adjusting his cufflinks, looking perfectly composed, as if this was just a business meeting.
He turns his head slowly, catching my gaze. The streetlights outside cast shadows across his face, making the scar through his eyebrow look deeper, darker.
"Stop shaking, Ivy," he says softly.
He reaches out and covers my hand with his. His glove is gone now. His skin is warm, rough, calloused. His thumb rubs over my knuckles in a soothing, possessive rhythm.
"You’re safe now," he promises.
"I’m a prisoner," I whisper, my voice trembling.
He smiles. A genuine, terrifying smile that reaches his eyes.
"Same thing, little bird."
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into the darkness of the city, taking me away from everything I’ve ever known, and deeper into the abyss of the man sitting beside me.
CHAPTER 4
THE CLEANSING
POV: SILAS
The elevator ascends in silence.
It’s a private lift, accessible only by my biometric scan, bypassing the fifty floors of corporate drones and residential tenants below. We are rising above the filth of the city, leaving the grime and the noise and the desperation on the pavement where it belongs.
Ivy is shivering against my chest.
She hasn’t spoken since I put her in the car. She hasn’t fought, either. The initial burst of adrenaline that fueled her attempt to stab me seems to have burned itself out, leaving behind a hollow, trembling shock. She feels fragile in my arms, bird-boned and too thin. I can feel the sharpness of her shoulder blade digging into my bicep through her thin cotton t-shirt.
It angers me.
Not her weakness—I like her weakness. Her weakness creates space for my strength. What angers me is thecauseof it. I think of Marcus Ross, crying in the basement of The Altar, and I regret giving him a quick death. I should have let the Russians have him. I should have kept him alive long enough to starve him the way he starved her.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, melodic chime.
My penthouse spans the entire top floor of the Vane Tower. It is a fortress of glass, steel, and black marble. Minimalist. Cold. Impenetrable. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Manhattan, a glittering ocean of lights that I own a significant portion of.
I step out into the foyer. The air here is climate-controlled, filtered, scented faintly with white tea and ozone. It smells nothing like the boiled cabbage and mildew of her building.
"Put me down," Ivy whispers. Her voice is a rasp, dry and brittle.
I ignore her. I walk past the sprawling living room, past the kitchen that has never been used, and head straight for the Master Suite.
"I said put me down!" She struggles weakly, pushing against my chest.
"We’re almost there," I say, my voice calm. I don’t tighten my grip; I don’t have to. She has nowhere to go.
I kick open the double doors to my bedroom. It’s a cavernous space, dominated by a king-sized bed with black silk sheets. But I don’t stop there. I carry her into the en-suite bathroom.
This room is my sanctuary. Walls of dark slate, a heated floor, and a massive freestanding tub carved from a single block of volcanic stone. It sits in the center of the room like a sacrificial altar.
I finally set her down.
Her bare feet hit the warm stone tiles. She sways, grabbing the edge of the marble vanity for support. She looks around wildly,her eyes darting from the rainfall shower to the tub, then to the mirror that spans the entire wall.
