And at the head of the table — Caelum.
Perfect posture, unreadable face. His eyes flick to me once, just long enough to acknowledge that I exist, then return to the morning paper.
I clear my throat. “How long has it been?”
Mateo looks up, smirking. “Since what, querida?”
“Since you dragged me here.”
He takes his time answering, drawing it out just to see if I’ll push.
I do.
“Well?”
He sets his mug down with deliberate slowness. “Almost a week.”
A week.
I feel it in my bones — the claustrophobia, the walls pressing closer, the quiet stretching thin.
“Feels longer,” I mutter.
“That’s because you keep pacing,” Ash says absently, not looking up from his screen.
I shoot him a glare. “Maybe because I’mcooped upin a gildedcage.”
Mateo chuckles. “Gilded, she says. You’ve got silk sheets, three hot meals, and a shower that actually works. That’s luxury compared to where most people end up after crossing us.”
“Good to know the bar’s on the floor,” I grumble.
Wraith snorts, dark and quiet. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The way he says it — not cruel, not protective, just final — sends a pulse of irritation through me.
“I didn’t say I was,” I reply. “I just said I needair. Fresh, not filtered through your paranoia.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even Caelum lowers the paper, folding it neatly beside his plate. His gaze pins me from across the table.
“You’re bored,” he says flatly.
“Trapped,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“No,” Mateo drawls, “there’s not.”
The air shifts. Five pairs of eyes, all different shades of power and danger, turn toward me — and I realize how quickly the room can turn from familiar to volatile.
Saint clears his throat softly, the sound like a bell cutting through tension. “The garden,” he says, voice smooth, calm. “It’s enclosed. Walled. You could walk there if you’d like.”
I blink at him. “You’re serious?”
“Completely,” he says. “A little air might do you good.”
Before I can answer, Wraith’s already shaking his head. “No. Not alone.”
Ash glances up. “She won’t get far. Every camera’s live.”
Caelum doesn’t speak. He’s just watching me — weighing, calculating, that faint curve of his mouth suggesting he’s waiting to see how I handle this.
