The silence that followed Ryder's exit was deafening, broken only by the frantic, uneven rhythm of Skye's own breathing. She lay back against the silk pillows, the cool metal of the shackles biting into her wrists. Her mind was a fractured mess of terror and adrenaline, but beneath the panic, the survival instincts honed in the Forest Kingdom began to stitch themselves back together.
She pulled at the chains, testing the tension. The steel was high-grade, the bolts anchored deep into the solid mahogany headboard. There was no breaking them with brute force. She scanned the room, her eyes darting from the heavy velvet curtains to the ornate vanity across the floor. There were no glass carafes to break, no stray hairpins within reach. She was trapped in a masterpiece of gilded isolation.
Think, Skye. Think like Roman would.
Roman didn't win by just being the strongest; he won by being the smartest. He anticipated moves three steps ahead. If Ryder had her here, it meant the perimeter was secure, the guards were bribed, and Roman was being led on a ghost chase. If she waited for a rescue that was being systematically delayed, she might be halfway across the world before the Dragon even found the trail.
She had to be her own exit strategy.
She looked at the door. Ryder wanted the Songbird. He wanted the prize he had lost to Roman- not just her body, but the prestige of owning her, the ego stroke of breaking the woman Roman Thorne loved.
If he wants a prize, she thought, a cold, hard knot forming in her stomach, I'll give him the performance of a lifetime.
An hour passed before the heavy latch turned again. Skye didn't cower this time. She sat up as much as the chains allowed, her silver dress shimmering like a dying star in the dim light. She let her hair fall over one shoulder, hiding the raw, red marks on her wrists.
Ryder entered carrying a tray with a bottle of vintage wine and two crystal glasses. He looked at her, expecting the spitting fire of their last encounter. Instead, he found her quiet, her gaze lowered, her posture yielding.
"Hungry, Songbird?" he asked, his voice dripping with a smug, territorial warmth. He set the tray on the nightstand and poured a glass of deep red liquid. "Or have you finally realized that screaming is a waste of that beautiful throat?"
Skye didn't look up immediately. She let a small, shaky sigh escape her lips. "I've realized that Roman isn't coming, Ryder."
The lie tasted like ash, but she forced it out with the practiced ease of a stage performer. She looked up then, her eyes swimming with a carefully curated vulnerability. "You were right. He was so busy with the 'security breach'... he didn't even notice I was gone until it was too late. He sent Vance and Kael. He didn't come himself. He never comes himself when things get difficult."
Ryder paused, the wine glass halfway to his lips. A glimmer of predatory interest sparked in his dark eyes. He stepped closer, the scent of his expensive, sterile cologne filling her space. "He's a businessman, Skye. You were an acquisition. A high-profile asset to keep away from men like me. But assets are replaceable."
"Is that what I am?" Skye whispered, pitching her voice into that low, melodic vibrato that always drew people in at the club. She leaned forward, the chains clinking softly- not a frantic sound now, but a deliberate, slow chime. "Just a prize to be traded back and forth?"
She reached out as far as the metal would allow, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his blazer. She felt him stiffen, his ego warring with his suspicion.
"Roman treated me like a trophy," she lied, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she feared he might see it through the silver chainmail. "A project to fix. But you... you fought for me. You've been obsessed with me since the first night you saw me on that stage."
She forced herself to look at him with a glimmer of something that looked like dawning admiration. "There's a certain power in that, Ryder. Being wanted that much. It's almost... intoxicating."
Ryder set the glass down, his gaze intensifying. He sat on the edge of the bed, much closer than before. "You're changing your tune very quickly, Songbird. Why should I believe you?"
Skye let a small, bitter laugh escape. "What choice do I have? I can spend my life chained to this bed, hating you until I wither away, or I can accept that the man who claimed to love me let me get snatched from under his nose. I'm a survivor, Ryder. I've always been a survivor. And I'd rather be a survivor by your side than a corpse in Roman's shadow."
She leaned in, her face inches from his. This was the most dangerous part of the gamble. She could see the pores of his skin, the slight tremor of excitement in his hands. He was a narcissist, and narcissists loved nothing more than believing they had finally "conquered" what was once denied to them.
"Unchain me," she murmured, her breath ghosting over his lips. "Let me show you that I can be a better partner than a prisoner. Roman never really understood the Songbird. He wanted a housewife in a fortress. I think you want the woman in the silver dress."
Ryder reached out, his hand cupping the back of her neck. His grip was firm, bordering on painful, but Skye didn't flinch. She leaned into it, her eyes fluttering shut as if she were savoring his touch. It took every ounce of her willpower not to retch.
"You're a silver-tongued little thing," Ryder whispered, his face descending toward hers. "If this is a game, Skye, I'll kill you the moment I find out."
"Then don't find out," she breathed.
When his lips met hers, it was a cold, demanding kiss. It lacked the fire and soul of Roman's touch; it felt like a transaction, a conquest. Skye didn't pull away. She kissed him back with a desperate, simulated hunger, her hands- still shackled, reaching up to clutch at his hair. She let her fingers trail down his neck, memorizing the shape of his throat, the location of his pulse.
She wasn't kissing a lover. She was scouting a target.
Ryder pulled back, his breathing ragged, his ego clearly fed to the point of intoxication. He looked at the shackles, then back at her flushed face. The victory he felt in that moment was the crack in his armor she needed.
"The keys," she whispered, her voice a soft, seductive command. "Let me be yours, Ryder. Not the chains."
He reached into his pocket, the metallic jingle of the key ring sounding like music to her ears. He was arrogant enough to believe he had broken her in a single hour. He was foolish enough to believe that a woman who had survived the Forest Kingdom would ever truly submit to a man like him.
As he fumbled with the first lock, Skye's mind was already moving. She felt the right shackle fall away, the blood rushing back into her wrist. She didn't strike yet. She waited for the second.
One more, Ryder, she thought, her eyes fixed on the heavy glass wine bottle on the tray. Just one more, and I'm going to show you exactly how the Songbird fights.
She was the Captain Mom. She was the Queen of the Thorne estate. And she was going to burn Ryder Vane's world down before the sun hit the pines.