Mine,the mirror said.
"Yours," I whisper into the empty room.
I stroke myself through my jeans, the friction sharp and electric. I think about the lock on the window. He locked me in. He wants me safe. He wants me kept.
The climax hits me fast, a hard, shuddering release that leaves me gasping for air, tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. It feels like a betrayal of my own survival instincts, but it also feels like the first honest thing I’ve done in years.
I lie on the floor as my breathing evens out, the cold metal of the necklace warming against my skin.
This isn't a game. I know that now.
The ghost is real.
And he’s not going to let me go.
CHAPTER 2
THE DEVIL IN THE PEW
POV: SILAS
The flame of my lighter flickers, a tiny, restless dancer reflecting in the darkened glass of the window. I snap the lid shut, suffocating the fire, then flick it open again.
Click. Flash. Click. Darkness.
It’s a rhythm that matches the slow, heavy thud of my heart.
Up on the fourth floor, the light in apartment 4B goes out.
A grim, satisfied smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. She didn't take it off. I would have seen it. I have eyes everywhere, but right now, I didn't need cameras to know what Ivy Ross was doing. I could feel it. I could feel the moment she surrendered to the weight of the diamonds around her throat. I could feel the shift in the air when she touched herself, calling out to the ghost in the room.
Yours,she whispered.
I heard it. Not with my ears—I’m four stories down, encased in reinforced steel and bulletproof glass—but I heard it in my blood. It roared through my veins, a dark, possessive hymn.
She thinks she’s scared. She thinks she’s confused. But the truth is simpler, uglier. Ivy is just like me. She craves the cage. She just needed someone to build a pretty enough one for her.
My phone vibrates in the breast pocket of my suit jacket. I ignore it. I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to savor this feeling—the knowledge that for the first time in the six months I’ve been watching her, she finally acknowledged my existence. She didn't run. She didn't scream. She accepted the gift.
She accepted the collar.
The phone buzzes again. Persistent. Annoying.
I pull it out, the screen illuminating the scarred interior of the Rolls-Royce. The name on the display isLUCA.
I slide my thumb across the screen. "Speak."
"We have a problem at The Altar," Luca’s voice is tight, clipped. He knows better than to call me unless blood has been spilled or money has been lost.
"Define problem," I say, my eyes drifting back to her dark window. I picture her curled up in that narrow bed, the birdcage pendant resting against her pulse. I wonder if the metal has warmed to her skin yet.
"It’s Marcus," Luca says.
My hand tightens around the phone, the leather of my gloves creaking.
"Her father?"
"Yeah. He’s here. And he’s not alone. He’s with the Sokolov brothers. They’re making noise, Silas. They’re talking about collateral."
