The key was small. Silver. It glinted when he walked, swinging just enough for her to see it wasn't decorative.
It opened something. And anything that opened could be escaped.
Naya took a slow step forward, just as Kael disappeared into the room.
The moment her bare feet crossed the threshold, her body tensed. Not from fear — that had long calcified into something colder — but from instinct. New surroundings always meant new dangers.
The room wasn't what she expected.
No dungeon. No chains.
It was beautiful.
A high ceiling framed in deep mahogany, windows draped in navy velvet, floors polished so clean she could see her reflection in them. A fireplace burned low on the far wall, casting soft light over the space.
And in the middle of it all — a black velvet couch.
Kael stood by the mantel, pouring himself a drink. Whiskey, by the look of it. He didn't offer her one.
"You're quiet," he said without looking at her.
Still, she said nothing. Her tongue pressed like a dead weight against the roof of her mouth.
He glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Do you remember how to speak?"
Naya blinked.
Of course she remembered. She just hadn't had permission in seven years.
"I didn't buy you to hurt you," he said after a pause. "I'm not like the others."
Her throat tightened.
They all said that.
Kael finally turned to face her, glass in hand. His eyes weren't cruel — not exactly. But they weren't kind either. They were assessing. Measuring.
"You'll eat, sleep, and bathe here. You won't be locked in unless you give me a reason to." He sipped. "Try to run and I won't stop you. Just know that I'm not the worst man waiting for you out there."
Naya didn't flinch. She was past flinching.
Instead, she let her eyes drift again — toward the belt, the key, the one thing in this place that shimmered like a lie.
Kael noticed.
A slow smile tugged at his lips. "You're sharper than they said."
He took a step forward. She didn't move.
"Do you want to ask what the key is for?" he said softly.
She looked at him, but not his eyes. She focused on his collarbone instead. Safer.
"No?" he said, as if answering for her. "That's fine. You'll find out soon enough."
Her stomach turned.
Then he did something she didn't expect. He stepped past her, walked toward the hallway, and stopped at the door.
"You'll sleep in here," he said. "There's food on the tray by the window. If you're hungry, eat. If not, don't. But don't starve yourself for my attention."
He didn't look back as he walked out.
The door didn't slam. It clicked gently into place.
And it didn't lock.
Not this time.
⸻
Naya stood frozen for a moment longer, her eyes flicking to the tray of food. Real food. Not scraps. Not punishment.
But she didn't move toward it.
Her body turned toward the far wall — toward the fireplace. And above the mantel, she saw it.
A photograph.
Dusty, cracked… and familiar.
Her blood ran cold.
In the frame was a woman. Not her mother — someone older. Worn. But the eyes. She knew those eyes.
She'd seen them in a cage once.