My eyes snap open.
For two, three, four seconds, I don’t move. I force my breathing to stay even. If someone’s watching, I want them to think I’m still out.
The ceiling above me is white plaster, clean, framed with elegant crown molding that curves in delicate loops at the corners. That alone tells me more than I want it to. This isn’t a warehouse or a holding cell. This is a place someone actually lives. Someone with taste and money and the arrogance to think they can keep me here without chains.
My wrists aren’t tied.
I test my ankles next, just in case.Free.
Okay. That is a decent sign. Carefully, slowly, I roll onto my back and let my eyes adjust.
The room is dim, washed in the glow of city light pushing past heavy curtains. London at night paints everything in diluted amber. It spills through in a soft stripe across the floorboards, climbing one leg of a chair and vanishing into shadow.
Floorboards.
Not laminate, not cracked tile. Dark, oil-polished hardwood that still holds an old house’s faint groan. Old bones with new money overlaid. He really did bring me to a townhouse then.
Good.
Old bones creak. New money relies on locks. Locks can be played.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The world tilts, bends, snaps back in a hard, nauseating reel. A wave of chemical throb rolls from the base of my skull down my neck. Sedative hangover. My stomach doesn’t like that at all.
I swallow hard and breathe through it until the floor stops threatening to slide sideways.
The bed is big—king size or bigger, dressed in charcoal linens and layered duvets. I drag my fingertips across the sheet. Silky smooth. Not satin. Egyptian cotton, maybe. Rich boy bedding. Between my thighs, the mattress barely dips when I move. Quality. Quietly expensive.
I’m still in my T-shirt. My shorts are still on.
No one touched me.
Relief hits so sharp it almost hurts. I let it crest and recede. Then I get back to work.
The room itself is…notwhat I expect.
It’s not cage-like. Not bare. Not a panic room with cinderblock walls. It’s curated.
There’s a low dresser against one wall, matte black. Brass pulls. On top of it sits a glass decanter and two matching tumblers on a small silver tray, like someone thinks this is a hotel. My stomach twists uncomfortably, not because I can’t handle the temptation but because of what lies beside it. Beside the tray, neatly folded, lies a dark gray hoodie and a pair of joggers. Both appear to be my size at a glance.
Weird.
A small sitting area anchors the far corner—a deep armchair in dark green leather, and a side table with a stack of books. Not decorations. Worn at the edges, spines cracked, actually read. The one on top is a first edition of something withembossed gold lettering. Someone here has money and taste and sentimentality. Or they’re pretending to.
A long mirror stands angled near the wardrobe, old frame, gilt faded. My reflection stares back—red hair a mess, kohl smudged under my eyes, mouth still split at the corner. There’s a bruise beginning to bloom on my jaw, already turning shadow-purple. My throat tightens.
Wraith did that when he pinned me to the wall. Not on purpose. Just force meeting bone.
The memory hits fast and out of sequence. The door. The creak. The mask. His hand closing around my wrist like a promise. “Stop fighting,” in that low, unbothered tone that made it sound like a suggestion, not an order.
And before that—me in my own flat, my own bed, thinking I could sleep.
Anger floods me so hot I almost shake with it. Focus. I shake my head, forcing myself to take in every single detail. Training ingrained in me from a very young age. Training that has managed to keep me alive all these years.
Sweet suffering Jesus please let it keep me safe now.
To the right of the bed, there’s a door. Closed. Painted the same deep matte blue as the walls. I angle my head and listen.
Silence. No voices. No footsteps.
