"I don't know." Ana clasped her hands together, fingers wringing and twisting around each other, knuckles going white from the pressure. "But they never come back, like my sister."
A pang of sympathy twisted in my chest. The girl looked so lost, so defeated, her shoulders curved inward like she was trying to fold herself into something smaller, less noticeable. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, tell her everything would be okay, wrap her in reassurance that might ease the haunted look in her eyes. But I couldn't afford that kind of softness right now. Not when I needed to stay focused, stay alert, keep my mind sharp, and keep my emotions locked down tight. Sentiment was a luxury I didn't have if I was going to get out of here. If I let myself feel too much, let the weight of what happened to Xabat pull me under, I'd drown in it.
"Who owns this place? The Trogvyk?" I shifted back to gathering intel, forcing my voice into something clinical, detached—the tone of someone conducting an interview rather than planning an escape.
"No." Ana shook her head, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. "The Master is human."
The idea of it twisted my stomach into knots, bile rising hot and acidic in my throat. A human. Not some alien with incomprehensible motives, but someone who shared my species, my DNA, my supposed humanity had chosen this. Had built this prison, orchestrated these kidnappings, turned people into property. Somehow that made it worse, more unforgivable. I remembered what Xabat had told me about the Alliance suspecting a human was involved in abductions and wondered if I'd inadvertently stumbled into his operation. "Do you know his name?"
Another shake of her head, more emphatic this time, her eyes darting toward the door as if the mere question might summon him. "I've only ever called him the Master." Hervoice dropped to barely above a whisper, the words carrying the weight of enforced habit, of conditioning. "My brother recognized him, though. He's famous."
Famous? The word detonated in my mind like a grenade. Fuck! Was this another Epstein island situation? Some celebrity, billionaire, or politician with enough money and power to build their own private hell? The thought made my skin crawl, made me want to scrub myself raw. But people had escaped from places like that. Survivors had made it out, told their stories, and brought monsters into the light. Like them, I could escape. I would escape from here. "How do people get on and off the island? Are there boats?"
"No. Only helicopters and spaceships." Ana's eyes widened as she caught on to my line of questioning, understanding dawning across her delicate. Fear flooded in behind it, stark and immediate. "You're not thinking of trying to escape, are you?" Her small hand landed on my forearm, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. I could feel the trembling running through her like subterranean quakes. "Please don't. It doesn't go well for those who try." The last sentence came out strangled, choked, as if she was seeing something in her mind's eye that she desperately wanted to unsee.
I studied her face. The terror etched into every line, the way her pupils dilated until her eyes were almost black, the rapid flutter of her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. She was so scared, so thoroughly broken by whatever she'd witnessed in this place. It made me wonder exactly what horrors she'd seen. What had she been forced to watch? I decided in that instant, the decision settling into my bones with absolute certainty. When I found a way off this island, I'd take Ana with me. And her brother. I wasn't leaving anyone behind to suffer whatever fate awaited them here.
I gave a noncommittal huff, neither confirming nor denying her fears, and took a bite of the large pastry in the center of my plate. It was like biting into a sweet, fluffy cloud, layers of buttery dough dissolving on my tongue, filling my mouth with the taste of vanilla and almond and something else I couldn't quite identify... maybe cardamom? Whoever owned this place apparently had a chef, a real one, the kind who trained in Paris or Milan and charged obscene amounts for their expertise.
"I'll leave you." Ana murmured, already backing toward the door with small, careful steps, her body language screaming retreat. "The Master doesn't like it when I tarry. You should eat and bathe. The clothes in the closet should fit you." A flicker of anger flashed across her face, just barely, so quick I almost missed it. A spark of rebellion quickly smothered before it could catch fire, as though she knew better than to exhibit that kind of emotion where someone might see. "The Master likes us to be pretty." The words came out flat, dead, carrying the weight of countless repetitions, a rule that had been drilled into her until it became reflex.
Fuck the Master, but I was hungry, and a shower would be wonderful.
Ana slipped out of the room with barely a sound.
I turned my attention back to the spread. Besides the pastries, there were sausages, eggs, fruit, a pot of tea, something floral and delicate that I didn't recognize, along with a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes. The china was fine, expensive, with gold edging that caught the light. Everything about this place screamed wealth and control.
The thought made my stomach turn, but I forced myself to take another bite of pastry. I'd need my strength if I was going to get out of here.
I polished off everything on the tray, even scraping up the last crumbs of pastry with my finger. The tea went downsmoothly, warming my chest and clearing the last of the fog from my head.
The bathroom called to me, not just because I needed to pee, but because I needed to see what I was working with. Information was ammunition.
I pushed through the door and stopped short.
Lavish didn't begin to cover it.
The bathroom was bigger than the entire first floor of the beach house. White marble covered every surface—floors, walls, countertops—all veined with gold that caught the light and made the whole space glow like the inside of some expensive jewelry box.
A freestanding tub sat on a raised platform near another floor-to-ceiling window, this one frosted for privacy. The fixtures were gold—actual gold, not brass trying to pretend—and shaped like swan necks arching over the sink. A separate glass-enclosed shower took up one corner, big enough for four people, with multiple shower heads jutting from the walls at different angles.
Lined up on the marble counter like soldiers at attention: La Mer moisturizer. Sisley Paris cleanser. A bottle of Clive Christian perfume I knew—because I'd once window-shopped at Nordstrom—cost over eight hundred dollars for a tiny bottle. The shampoo and conditioner were Oribe, the fancy stuff celebrities used.
Thousands of dollars' worth of products just sitting there, casual as toothpaste in a normal person's bathroom.
The Master likes us to be pretty.
Ana's words echoed in my head. This wasn't hospitality. This was grooming. Packaging. Making the merchandise presentable.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and turned away from the counter.
The closet was through another door, and when I opened it, I had to bite back a laugh, the hysterical kind that bubbled up when reality got too absurd to process any other way.
It was bigger than the living room at the beach house. The space stretched deep, lined on both sides with racks of clothing, shoes displayed on individual pedestals like they were museum pieces, and an entire wall dedicated to accessories—handbags, scarves, jewelry, hats.
Everything designer. Everything expensive. Everything screaming that whoever owned this place had more money than God.
I rifled through the racks, pushing aside silk dresses and cocktail gowns, ignoring price tags that would have made me faint under normal circumstances. Valentino, Versace, Gucci, Dior. Names I'd only ever seen in magazines or on television, now hanging in front of me like nothing special.
