“I couldn’t get in,” he snapped back, none of his usual theatrical nonsense cushioning the words. His voice was tight and stripped of its usual swagger.
“He’s sealed the entire manor,” he told me, and I gasped.
“What… what do you mean sealed?” I stammered, turning fully toward him, the tap still running between us, steam coiling around his outline like it wasn’t sure whether to keep him here or swallow him whole.
“I mean layered wards,” he bit out, raking a hand across his bald head in agitation and pacing the narrow strip of tile like a caged thing.
“Old ones. Nasty ones. Not the pretty little witchcraft your mom plays with. Windows, doors, corridors, stairwells, I tried everything. It’s locked down tighter than a dragon’s hoard.”
A slow chill threaded through me, despite the heat gathering in the room.
“Then how are you here?” I asked the obvious, even as my mind whirled with the knowledge of what Oblivion had done to keep me here.
His eyes flicked toward the running tap as he told me,
“Water messes with the structure. Running lines create gaps in the pattern. Not big ones, not stable ones, but enough. This is the only place I could anchor without getting shredded.”
The implication pressed heavily against my ribs.
Everywhere in this building had been reinforced, not with iron or steel, but with spells layered so tightly they might as well have been walls. No wonder he had been so careful not to let me feel like I was locked away in some gilded cage. Not when he could replace visible bars with something far more insidious. Invisible restraints. A prison you couldn’t touch, couldn’t see, couldn’t even point to, because technically, nothing was there… and yet it was still one I couldn’t ever hope to escape from this time.
As clearly, Oblivion had learned his lesson, and he wasn’t about to let me slip from his fingers a second time. Which meant that the tiny sense of independence I’d felt when realizing the door wasn’t locked thinned to something fragile.
“He didn’t lock me in,” I said automatically, and even as I said it, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, him or myself.
Bo’s eyes flashed.
“He didn’t need to,” he said as he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Eliza,” he said, and the lack of ‘girly’ made my stomach dip.
“He does not bring people into this part of the manor. Only those closest to him, his council are allowed inside his home. But as for mortals… fuck no. Not anything that breathes like you do.”
I crossed my arms instinctively, defensive without meaning to be.
“But why then… why me?”
“I don’t know, but it’s clear he’s marking territory,” Bo replied, and
I sucked in a quick breath at his words, making me step back and the edge of the counter hit my back.
“He hasn’t claimed anything,” I said, but the protest came out thinner than I intended.
Bo’s gaze dropped briefly to my shoulders, to where his jacket still remained as if this was proof enough.
“You’re in his room,” he pointed out, making me flinch.
Closing my eyes, I forced out,
“I know.”
“In his private space,” he continued on.
“Yes, I’m aware, Bo,” I spoke through gritted teeth.
“He doesn’t let go of things he pulls into it,” Bo pressed, stepping closer again, lowering his voice like the tile might betray us.
“This isn’t hospitality, Eliza. It’s control.”
