Her father uncrossed his arms to ball his fists at his sides. “I have explained in my letters why it is imperative that—”
The patron held up the hand that had cupped the side of her head. Josephine was discomfited to watch her father close his mouth with a sharpclack. Even her mother’s bloodshot eyes widened with surprise at the sight.
Speaking in a low, fatherly cadence, the patron said, “Enough, Doctor. This is out of your hands now. We own this land. We own the food on your table. We own your subjects, your lab equipment, your bed.” The tips of the man’s fingers brushed the braid coiled around the crown of Josephine’s head. “And we own your daughter.”
He said nothing more for several moments, letting that truth settle over them all. Josephine’s gaze darted around the room, taking in her mother’s bemused, slightly slack expression, Harrod’s pale face, and her father’s reddened cheeks.
Never in all her life had she seen someone tell her father what to do. Everyone in his orbit existed at his whim. One did not challenge Doctor Wyeth.
This slight man, with a cloak of magic that hung like shimmering heat around him, did not challenge her father.
Hecommandedhim.
It did not occur to Josephine until that moment that, in her limited experience of the world, she might have simply assumed that her father was a being of supreme authority. She had never imagined someone more powerful, more ruthless than him. Never would she have suspected that her father had fears, that there were men who evenhewould not cross.
To know that such a man existed, and that he was now claiming her as his property, was a terrifying realization.
Breaking the tense silence at last, the patron’s voice took on a chipper note when he announced, “Now, here is how we will move forward: I am aware that you have a subject in custody at this very moment. I suspect by the lack of noise that he has yet to be bitten. We — excusing Madam Wyeth, of course — are going to adjourn to the barn, where I will oversee the administration of the bite.”
Josephine jolted.No.
Her eyes roved wildly, desperate for some escape, some sign that her father would refuse. They were supposed to have one more night. They were supposed to havetime.Had Otto even discovered the keys folded within the blankets? Certainly he had. She was supposed to sneak out in the night, before her door was bolted, and attempt the sigil on the door, supplies for their escape in hand. Free of his chains, they would make their escape.
That grand plan stood on the brink of ruin.
What would happen if they entered Otto’s cellnowto find him unchained?
Otto would fight. She knew that in her soul. He would fight until his last breath to free them both, but even the fiercest shifter might fall to so many witches in a confined space.
When Otto was subdued, all their planning would be for naught. Her father would inject him. His animal would die. Their chance at a future would evaporate before her eyes.
What could she do?Nothing.
The beast’s rage wouldn’t serve her now. Against Harrod? Her father? Perhaps she might have stood a chance, but not now, with two glamoured guards and the witch looming behind her? It would take more effort to subdue a kitten.
Her father didn’t seem to realize just how powerless they all were when he argued, “My experiments require a strict set of parameters and protocols—”
The guards moved subtly from where they stood against the walls by the short staircase that led to the front door. It was the smallest movement — the widening of a stance, straightening shoulders, tensed fingers — but everyone in the room felt the air change.
Still speaking pleasantly, the patron cut her father off. “Your mistake is believing that your experiments are the important part, Doctor. We do not care about your science. We do not care about your parameters or protocols. We do not even care aboutyou.”
The patron took one graceful step around the side of Josephine’s chair and held out his hand to her. Left with little option, she slowly pressed her trembling fingers against the soft, hot skin of his palm and rose from her seat. Her knees could barely hold her weight.
“Now,” he announced, shooting her a brilliant, cold grin as he threaded her hand into the crook of his elbow, “let us make our way to the barn. And then perhaps some lunch. Come along, Miss Wyeth.”
* * *
The trek across the yard was the longest of her life. Josephine felt every step reverberate from the soles of her boots to the crown of her head. She was deaf to everything except the rush of blood in her ears. There was no sensation in the hand that rested in the crook of the patron’s elbow. Her mind was emptied of everything except a fear and grief the likes of which she had never, in all her suffering, experienced.
Even the beast was quiet — struck dumb by incomprehensible fear for their mate.
It didn’t matter that Otto consented to her bite. It didn’t matter that he demanded it, nor that he knew the consequences. She felt in her heart that he still did not completely believe her when she told him it would kill his animal. What sane man would consent if hedid?
A person could not consent to what they did not fully comprehend. And even if hedidknow, she had fully intended on ignoring her unnatural urge to bite. She wouldneverwillingly steal Otto’s soul, no matter what he demanded.
Josephine’s gorge rose at the thought of what was to come. She wrestled with the urge to vomit up her breakfast as they made a grim procession across the yard.
The patron chatted gamely, completely unconcerned with the way her father’s rage was beginning to turn his face purple, nor that she said not a word in response. He completely ignored Harrod, who hurried after them, helpless indignation grooving every long line of his face.
