She doesn’t react to the cold, doesn’t shiver or pull her limbs in closer to conserve heat. Just watches me with that steady, unblinking gaze that suggests she’s already cataloged every exit route, every potential weapon, every weakness she might exploit if opportunity presents itself.
She iscalculating.
She isdangerous.
“You touched my flame.” The accusation comes out rougher than intended, my voice dropping into registers that make humans instinctively back away from predators they can’t fight or outrun. “Made it burn brighter than it has in decades. That alone should terrify you, should make you understandexactlyhow deep the trouble you’re in is. But you sit here in chains and defiance like you think attitude will save you from what I could do if I stopped caring about answers.”
“So do it.” She shifts slightly, chains clinking against stone when she adjusts her position to meet my eyes more directly. The movement costs her. I catch the wince she tries to hide, the way her ribs protest breathing too deeply, but she pushes through the pain with the same stubborn determination that kept her from breaking under isolation’s weight. “Kill me. Torture me. Feed me to whatever the hell Wreck is. I’m dead either way, aren’t I? At least this way, I go out on my terms instead of giving you the satisfaction of seeing me beg.”
The crack widens, spreading through ice and fury until something uncomfortably close to respect blooms in the space where absolute certainty used to live. She’s right, of course. The witch’s laws are absolute, and humans who breach our world don’t leave it breathing. But she’s also sitting here in chains, bleeding, bruised, and utterly unbroken, staring down a dragon with enough power to freeze her solid without breaking a sweat.
And the little firecracker doesn’t blink.
I move before conscious decision catches up with instinct, crossing the distance between us in two long strides that bring me close enough to smell the blood in her hair, the fear she refuses to acknowledge, and beneath it all something else that makes my dragon inhale sharply. My hands reach for the chains, fingers wrapping around iron that burns against my skin, a reminder of what iron does to supernatural flesh, and, with a thought, I freeze the locks solid before shattering them with pressure that sends fragments skittering across stone.
The chains fall away from her wrists and ankles in heavy coils, iron clanking against stone with sounds that echo through the cell like funeral bells. Raw wounds circle both wrists where metal has eaten away at skin for seven days straight, the flesh red, angry, and weeping slightly where infection threatens to take hold without proper treatment.
She stares at her freed hands like she doesn’t quite believe they’re real, flexing fingers that must ache from days of being unable to move properly, testing the range of motion that the chains restricted so absolutely. Then her gaze snaps back to my face, suspicion and confusion warring across features too expressive to hide what she’s thinking.
“Why?”
“Because keeping you chained serves no purpose except satisfying my temper, and I don’t make decisions based on emotion.” The lie tastes bitter and utterly unconvincing even to my own ears. “You’re not broken. You’re not going to break. And iron burns waste resources better spent onactualthreats instead of photographers who stumbled into the specifically crafted nightmare by accident.”
I turn and head for the door without waiting for a response, every instinct screaming that lingering in this cell with her unbound and defiant will lead to complications I’mnot prepared to handle. “Move. You’re being relocated to better accommodations. Still locked, still a prison, but with a window, bed, and heat that won’t freeze you solid before I figure outwhatyou are andwhymy flame responds to you like it’s been waiting centuries for this exact moment.”
She doesn’t move immediately, nor does she rush to follow, as most prisoners would, when offered even marginal improvements to intolerable conditions. Instead, she takes her time, pushing herself to her feet with movements that suggest several ribs are at least bruised, if not cracked, using the wall for support as she tests her balance on legs that haven’t properly stood for a week.
Then she walks past me with her head held high, chains still pooled at her feet, blood still dried in her hair, defiance radiating from every line of her battered body like armor forged from pure stubbornness.
I follow her out of the cell and lock it behind us, the empty space already feeling wrong in ways I refuse to examine, before guiding her up the spiral stairs with one hand hovering near her elbow in case her legs give out. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, thank me, or lean on the offered support. Instead, she climbs one step at a time with the same patient determination that kept her from breaking under conditions designed specifically to accomplish exactly that.
The new room is three levels up, still in the secured wing but significantly closer to the main clubhouse, to heat, light, and the presence of other beings, rather than absolute isolation. I unlock the door and step aside, letting her enter first, watching as she takes in the upgrades with an expression that gives away nothing about what she’s thinking.
A proper bed instead of a thin cot, a mattress thick enough to actually provide comfort, blankets that will hold warmth instead of thin fabric that does nothing against mountain cold.A window, small and barred but functional, letting in daylight that floods the space with illumination the cell below never saw. A bathroom attached to the main room is complete with running water and basic necessities. Heat radiates from vents built into the walls, keeping the temperature tolerable rather than punishing.
Still a locked prison.
But significantly less brutal than where she spent the past week.
She walks to the window and stares out at mountains rising in the distance, at forest stretching as far as the eye can see, at territory that belongs to me through blood, power, and centuries of defending it against everything that’s tried to take it away. Her fingers touch the bars, testing their strength, and I catch the moment she accepts that escape through this route isn’t viable without tools she doesn’t possess.
“Food will be brought three times a day.” I keep my voice neutral and professional, the tone I use when giving orders instead of making conversation. “Medical supplies are in the bathroom. Bandages, antiseptics, basic painkillers. You’ll treat your wounds properly or infection will do what I’ve chosen not to.”
She doesn’t turn from the window or acknowledge my presence with anything except the slight tensing of shoulders that suggests she’s aware I’m still here, watching, and trying to solve the puzzle she represents.
“The brothers will start visiting you.” My words come out rougher than intended, frustration bleeding through despite my best efforts at control. “Checking on you. Making sure you’re alive and cooperative. Some will bring questions. Others will bring work if you’re capable of making yourself useful instead of wasting resources on a prisoner who contributes nothing except complications.”
With a heavy exhale, she turns, meeting my eyes with that steady gaze that refuses to break, bend, or acknowledge that I’m a creature who could end her existence with a thought and minimal effort. “Work?”
“You’re a photographer. Presumably, you can read, write, handle numbers, and perform organizational tasks that require attention to detail.” I gesture toward the desk in the corner, at ledgers and files I had Maul deliver earlier today. “The club runs businesses. Legitimate ones that require bookkeeping and financial management. If you’re going to stay alive long enough for me to figure out what you are, you might as well make yourself useful while you’re here.”
Her laugh is sharp and bitter, carrying edges that could draw blood if weaponized properly. “You’re certifiably insane. You kidnapped me, chained me in darkness for a week, and now you want me to do your accounting like this is some twisted internship instead of imprisonment?”
“I want you alive and occupied instead of plotting escape attempts that will only end with you dead or damaged beyond my ability to extract useful information.” The temperature drops as my patience frays, frost climbing the window frame in delicate patterns that catch afternoon light. “The alternative is sending you back to the cell below with Wreck as your only company. Your choice, Firecracker. Make it quickly before I stop offering options.”
She holds my gaze for another long moment, calculation running behind eyes that see too much, understand too clearly exactly how precarious her position actually is. Then she crosses to the desk and picks up one of the ledgers, flipping through pages covered in Maul’s precise handwriting, columns of numbers representing money moving through our various operations.
“Fine.” The word carries no surrender, no capitulation, just pragmatic acceptance of the reality she’s trapped in. “I’ll work. I’ll eat. I’ll pretend this is remotely normal. But don’t expect gratitude for upgrading my prison and don’t mistake cooperation for submission. The second I see an opportunity to leave this place… I’mfuckingtaking it.”
