The black bag smelled of stale cedar and old leather. It was thick enough to stifle my breathing, turning every gasp into a humid struggle. I didn't fight the men who forced me into the car. I didn't kick. Instead, I counted. I tracked the turns. Three sharp lefts, a long stretch of highway, then the crunch of gravel beneath tires for exactly forty-two seconds. A gate hissed open, and then the engine died.
The bag was ripped off my head.
The foyer of the Blackwood estate was a cathedral of marble and glass. It was cold enough to make the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "Upstairs. Third door on the left," a guard grunted, shoving me toward the stairs.
I walked. I didn't stumble. I kept my chin level, memorizing the security keypad codes as we passed—4-9-0-2—and the placement of the motion sensors. The room they shoved me into was a suite. Charcoal silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows, and reinforced glass.
"The Boss will be with you shortly," the guard said. "I'd suggest you change. He likes things... orderly."
The door clicked shut, the electronic bolt sliding home with the finality of a guillotine. I stood in the center of the room, my boots still caked with the dried blood of Pier 90. I didn't change into the silk robe on the bed. I went to the window. The forest was a wall. Somewhere out there, my cat, Poe, would be pacing the kitchen floor, waiting for a bowl of kibble I'd never fill. A sharp pang of grief hit me, but I shoved it down. Emotions were noise. Noise got you killed.
A soft chime echoed. The door opened.
Silas Vane had shed his overcoat. He was in a white dress shirt now, sleeves rolled up to reveal a dark tattoo of a serpent coiling around his left wrist. He stopped, his eyes raking over my dirt-streaked jacket. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"I see you ignored the clothes," he said, his voice a low hum.
"I prefer my own skin," I replied. "It's harder to peel off."
Silas walked toward me, his movements fluid. He didn't stop until he was in my personal space, the scent of sandalwood and ozone filling my senses. He set a crystal tumbler down and opened a leather-bound folder.
"Marlowe Thorne," he read. "Freelance journalist. No family. No permanent address for three years. You're a ghost by choice, Marlowe. You've spent your life hiding in the dark. Why? Is it because you're afraid to be seen, or because you're looking for something worth taking a picture of?"
"I'm a photographer," I said. "I document what is."
"Liar." Silas stepped closer, his chest almost brushing mine. He reached out, his hand hovering near my throat. I could feel the heat of his palm. "You saw me tonight. You saw the moment I ended those men. And you didn't look away because you recognized the void, didn't you?"
"I recognized a man with too much power and not enough humanity," I shot back.
His hand closed around my neck—not a choke, but a claim. His thumb rested over my carotid artery. He could feel my heart racing. "Your heart is lying to me, Marlowe," he whispered. "It's terrified. But your eyes... they're still trying to figure out if I'm going to kill you or kiss you."
I didn't move. I forced my breathing to slow. "Which one provides more data for your puzzle, Silas?"
His grip tightened for a heartbeat, his expression flickering with a flash of raw hunger. He let go abruptly, picking up his drink. "Neither. I've decided on a different game. You're going to stay here. You're going to watch me. Every deal, every execution, every dark corner of this empire."
"And then what? Kill me when you're bored?"
Silas walked to the door. "No. I've had enough of people who fear me. I want to see if I can make someone like you need me. I'm going to give you all the horror you can handle. And when you finally break—when you finally scream for me to stop—that's when I'll know I've won."
He stepped out, and the lock clicked. I slumped against the glass, my legs finally giving way. My hand went to my neck, where the ghost of his touch still burned. He hadn't just taken my freedom. He had invited me into his darkness.
I reached into my boot and felt the hard plastic of the SD card. I still had the evidence. I still had a weapon. But as I looked at the dark forest, I realized Silas Vane didn't care about evidence. He was building a cage out of more than just marble. He was building it out of me.