Cora woke up with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The bed was too soft, the sheets too smooth. The air was still and carried no scent of the city or the damp alley where they'd thrown her in the car.
She sat up, her head spinning. The room was massive. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showed a dark, sprawling forest under a pale moon. There was a plush armchair in the corner, a dresser made of dark wood, and a door she assumed led to a bathroom. It was the kind of room you saw in magazines, a place for people who had never worried about money a day in their life.
The memories crashed down on her then. The restaurant. The man on the floor. Damien's cold, bored eyes. She looked down at her hands. They were cleaned, but tiny cuts and scrapes dotted her palms, a sharp, stinging reminder that this wasn't a dream.
She slid off the bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. She walked to the door and tried the handle. It was solid, unmoving. Locked. She went to the windows, pressing her hands against the cool glass. They were at least three stories up, with no ledge, no way down. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at her skin. She was trapped. Utterly and completely trapped.
She backed away from the window, her eyes scanning the room for anything she could use as a weapon, a tool, anything. There was nothing.
She ran to the door and slammed her fists against it. The sound was dull, absorbed by the heavy wood. She hit it again, and again, the pain in her hands sharp and real. Then she opened her mouth and screamed.
A scream for the girl in the orphanage who couldn't make a sound. A scream for the life that had just been stolen from her. She screamed until her throat burned, until the sound became a hoarse, desperate gasp. She beat her fists against the door until her arms ached, until she was slumped against the wood, her body trembling with exhaustion.
Silence.
The silence that followed was worse than the screaming,It told her no one was coming. No one cared.She slid down to the floor, her back against the unmoving door, and wrapped her arms around her knees. The reality of her situation settled over her, She was completely alone.
Hours passed. The moon moved across the sky, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the carpet. Cora didn't move. She just sat there, her body stiff, her mind replaying the events of the night in a horrifying loop.
Then, a sound. The click of the lock.
Her head snapped up. The door swung open. A tall woman stood in the doorway. She wasn't old, but her face was a blank mask, her eyes empty. She was holding a silver tray with a covered dish and a glass of water. She moved with a strange, silent grace.
Cora scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding. "Please," she begged, her voice a raw croak. "I won't say anything. I swear. I didn't see anything, just let me go." She took a step forward, her hands held up in a desperate plea.
The woman's expression didn't change. She just stepped into the room, placing the tray on a small table near the door.
In that split second, Cora made a decision. She couldn't stay here. She lunged, ducking past the woman, aiming for the open doorway and the freedom beyond.
She never made it.
A hand shot out and grabbed her arm. The grip was like iron, stopping her dead in her tracks. The woman didn't grunt or strain. She just shoved Cora back into the room with a single, fluid motion. The force sent her stumbling, her feet tangling, and she fell hard onto the carpet.
The door clicked shut.
The lock slid back into place.
Cora lay on the floor, gasping for breath, the sting of failure sharp in her chest. But through the pain and fear, one thought cut through everything, clear and cold.
How did she move that fast?
Damien was in his study. The room was dark except for a single lamp casting a pool of light over the documents on his desk. Reports from his pack, updates from the border, financial statements from his human holdings. It was a world he controlled.
Tonight, it was all meaningless.
He could feel her. It was a constant, irritating hum in the back of his skull. He'd felt the impact of her fists against the door, each blow a dull thud in his own chest. He'd felt her spike of desperate hope during the failed escape,
How did she move that fast?
He felt her thought as clearly as if she'd spoken it aloud.
He picked up the heavy crystal tumbler of whiskey, intending to drink, to drown out the noise. But he didn't. He just stared at the liquid, his jaw tight. He hated this. Hated the loss of control, the way his focus kept drifting to the west wing of his estate. Hated the foreign, soft scent of vanilla and rain that seemed to cling to the inside of his nostrils.
With a snarl of pure frustration, he tightened his hand. The glass shattered in his grip, the shards digging into his palm, the whiskey and blood dripping onto the polished wood of his desk.
The pain was a welcome distraction. A clean, sharp sensation that was his, and his alone. But even as he stared at his bleeding hand, he could still feel her. A quiet, trembling presence in the back of his mind. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was only the beginning.
Cora pushed herself up from the floor, her body aching. Her mind was racing, replaying the woman's impossible speed over and over. It wasn't just fast; it was unnatural. Like watching a video on fast-forward. This wasn't just a kidnapping. This was something else entirely.
Her eyes fell on the silver tray the woman had left behind. A covered dish. A glass of water. Her stomach growled, a desperate, hollow ache, but she ignored it. She wouldn't touch it. She didn't trust the water, let alone the food. It could be drugged or Poisoned.
She walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, ignoring the stinging in her cut hands. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. A pale, terrified stranger stared back, her eyes wide and dark. But beneath the fear, something else was starting to form. A hard, cold resolve. Mr. Abernathy had taught her many things, but the most important lesson was this: never stop observing. Her life depended on it.
She walked back into the bedroom and sat in the plush armchair, facing the door. She wouldn't be caught off guard again. She would wait. She would watch. She would listen. She was a prisoner, yes. But she was no longer just a victim.
Night fell completely, the room plunging into near darkness, illuminated only by the faint moonlight through the windows. Cora remained in the chair, her body still, her senses on high alert. Every creak of the house, every whisper of wind against the glass, had her tensing.
Then, the sound she'd been dreading and anticipating. The soft, decisive click of the lock.
The door swung inward.
It wasn't the silent woman.
It was him. Damien.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock engaged again with a soft, final thud. He was wearing a different suit, this one a dark grey, but his presence was the same—a heavy, suffocating weight that filled the entire room. His left hand was bandaged, a stark white against the dark fabric of his sleeve.
He didn't speak,He just stood there, his gaze fixed on her. His eyes were a cold, piercing blue in the dim light, and they seemed to see right through her, stripping away every defense she had. The air grew thick, charged with a tension that was almost a physical thing. Her mind screamed at her to run, to hide, to fight. But her body was frozen, trapped in the intensity of his stare. And beneath the terror, a different, more terrifying feeling began to stir. A pull. A warmth that bloomed in her chest, a response to the monster who held her captive.