The room is beautiful in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a landscape that shouldn't exist—gardens suspended in perpetual twilight, flowers blooming in shades of blue and silver that don't occur in nature. The furniture is all dark wood and velvet, the kind of luxury that whispers about old money and older power. There's a four-poster bed in the corner that I've been studiously ignoring since they deposited me here six hours ago.

I'm perched on the window seat instead, cataloging exits like a woman possessed.

The windows don't open. I've tested them three times. The glass is thick enough to muffle sound but thin enough that I can see the impossible gardens beyond—and more importantly, the guards patrolling the perimeter with the casual efficiency of people who've been doing this for centuries. Which they probably have, given where I am.

The Twilight Court. Where fae princes collect human women like I collect scars.

Except I don't collect anything. I survive. There's a difference.

"Stop."

I flinch at my own thought, hating that I'm already falling into the mental patterns of captivity. The panic that wants to spiral. The voice in my head that sounds like Marcus—you're so ungrateful, Iris, after everything I've done for you—telling me to accept this, to be docile, to understand that this is what I deserve.

Fuck that.

I stand, running my fingers along the window frame again. Sealed. The door is locked from the outside, which I discovered when I tried it approximately ninety seconds after the fae servants finished unpacking luggage I didn't pack, laying out clothes I didn't choose in a closet that's bigger than my entire apartment was.

My entire former apartment. The one I'm never going back to.

The thought hits harder than it should.

I turn away from the window and survey the room with the clinical detachment of someone who's learned to compartmentalize. Bedroom. Sitting area with a ridiculous velvet sofa. Bathroom through that door—also checked, no window, no escape route, just a marble tub that's probably older than my country and smells like lavender and something floral I can't identify. A vanity with products I don't recognize. Soaps that cost more than my rent.

Did cost. Past tense. Everything's past tense now.

I move to the wardrobe and rifle through it with deliberate disrespect, yanking out hangers like I'm searching for weapons. Which, in a sense, I am. Knowledge is a weapon. Details are weapons. I need to know everything about this place if I'm going to get out of it.

The clothes are exquisite. Silk dresses in jewel tones, tailored pants, delicate undergarments that feel obscene against my calloused skin. Nothing practical. Nothing that says escape. Everything says pretty cage.

I pull on the plainest thing I can find—black pants that fit like they were made for me, which they probably were—and a charcoal sweater that doesn't make me feel like a doll. Better. Still a cage, but at least I'm not dressed like a sacrifice.

A knock at the door.

I go rigid, every muscle locking down. My hand instinctively reaches for the letter opener on the vanity—not a weapon, but better than nothing. The fae seem like the type to be offended by violence, and I've learned that offending your captor is usually a bad idea.

"Come in," I call, because refusing seems like the kind of thing that gets you locked in a tower, and I'm not ready for towers yet.

The door opens to reveal a fae I haven't seen before. He's tall—they're all tall, apparently—with skin the color of mahogany and amber eyes that hold something that looks almost like kindness. Almost. I've learned not to trust kindness. It's usually just manipulation wearing a prettier face.

But then he sets down a tray of food without ceremony, and doesn't immediately launch into threats or seduction or whatever it is fae princes do with their human prisoners.

"I'm Rowan," he says. His voice is rough, textured like stone worn smooth by water. "Captain of the guard. Kael sent me to make sure you have everything you need."

Kael. The name lands in my chest like a stone.

"Everything except freedom," I say, because my mouth runs faster than my brain, and apparently that's not changing just because I'm in a magical prison.

Rowan's scarred face cracks into something that might be a smile. There's a jagged line across his left cheekbone, white and old, and he's missing two fingers on his right hand. Battle scars. Real ones. Not the decorative kind.

"Can't help you with that," he says. "Not yet, anyway."

The yet hangs between us like a promise or a threat. I can't tell which, and that's somehow worse than if he'd just said no.

"What's your angle?" I ask, moving to the tray. There's bread—actual bread, not the processed garbage I've been surviving on—and fruit that smells like summer, and something that might be fish. Real food. My stomach betrays me by growling.

"No angle." Rowan leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world. "Eat. You're too thin."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. But you will be."

I tear into the bread instead of responding, because talking requires energy and eating is fuel and I need to be thinking about escape, not about the fact that this scarred fae warrior is looking at me like I'm a person and not a problem to be solved.

"The prince wants to see you," Rowan says after a moment. "Tonight. There's a dinner."

I stop chewing.

"Tell him no."

"He's not really asking."

"And yet I'm still saying no." I swallow, force myself to meet those amber eyes. "What's he going to do, drag me? That seems like a bad look for a prince."

"Probably." Rowan's mouth quirks. "He'd do it though. He's..." He pauses, searching for a word. "Interested. You're not like the others."

"What others?"

But I already know. There have been others. There are always others. Humans don't get stolen by fae princes because it's their lucky day. We get stolen because we're useful or beautiful or because someone decided we belong to them, and the world doesn't have a lot of options for women who say no to that kind of power.

Rowan doesn't answer. He just sets a dress on the edge of the sofa—emerald silk that probably costs more than my car—and leaves.

I stand alone in the beautiful cage and let myself feel the panic for exactly thirty seconds.

Then I push it down, lock it away, and get to work.

---

The dress fits perfectly, which means Kael had it made. Which means he was planning this before he even took me, which means this is all part of something larger and more calculated than a random abduction, and that thought should terrify me more than it does.

What terrifies me more is that I don't look like myself in the mirror.

The emerald brings out something in my eyes, makes them look less like storm clouds and more like something dangerous. The dress is cut low in the back and high on the thighs, and it moves like water when I walk. It's beautiful in a way that makes me want to claw it off my skin.

I compromise by keeping the black boots. Small rebellion. Tiny assertion of will. The kind of thing that gets you through when everything else is stripped away.

A servant arrives at sunset—a delicate fae woman with skin like moonlight and hair that shifts between silver and blue. She doesn't speak, just gestures for me to follow. I consider refusing, then reconsider when I realize that refusing might mean they come get me, and I'm not ready to find out what that looks like.

The halls of the Twilight Court are exactly as impossible as the gardens.

We walk through corridors that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them, past doors that lead to rooms I can't quite focus on. The walls are hung with tapestries that depict scenes I'm not sure are finished—the images seem to move, to change, to tell different stories depending on how the light hits them.

My guide doesn't speak, but she moves with purpose, and I follow like a prisoner being led to execution. Which, metaphorically, I probably am.

The dining hall takes my breath away, which is infuriating because I don't want to be impressed.

It's vast and open, with a ceiling that disappears into darkness, studded with what might be stars or might be floating lights—I can't tell and I hate that I can't tell. The table is long enough to seat fifty, but only three places are set.

Kael stands when I enter, and the world narrows to just him.

He's dressed in dark silk that looks liquid, and silver jewelry that catches the light in ways that shouldn't be possible. His eyes glow faintly—I didn't notice that before, or maybe I did and my brain refused to process it. They're silver and luminous and when they focus on me, I feel it like a physical touch.

"You came," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost vulnerable. I immediately don't trust it.

"I didn't have much choice," I say, because honesty seems safer than pretending this is anything other than what it is. "Pretty dress though. Thanks for the kidnapping gift."

His mouth curves. "I'm glad you like it."

"I didn't say I liked it. I said it was pretty. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

He gestures to the chair at his right hand, and I consider sitting across the table instead, just to be difficult. But I'm tired and hungry and the food smells incredible, so I sit where he wants me to sit, which is its own kind of defeat.

Morrigan arrives before I can spiral about that.

She enters like smoke taking physical form, and the temperature in the room drops. Her beauty is the kind that hurts to look at directly—all sharp edges and predatory grace. She's dressed in midnight silk embroidered with symbols that make my eyes water if I stare at them too long, and she smells like something dark and cloying. Black orchid, maybe, mixed with something metallic that raises the hair on my neck.

"Brother," she says, and her voice is silk wrapped around a knife. "And the human."

"Iris," Kael says, and there's a warning in his tone. "This is my sister, Morrigan. High Priestess of the Court."

Morrigan sits across from me, and her obsidian eyes dissect me with the precision of a surgeon. I feel like she's cataloging my weaknesses, my fears, the exact points where I'll break.

"How fascinating," she says. "I expected someone more... resilient."

"I am resilient," I say. "I'm also well-mannered enough not to comment on a stranger's appearance within five seconds of meeting them."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or anger. It's gone before I can identify it.

"Spirited," she observes. "Brother, where did you find such a thing?"

"Boston," Kael says. He's watching me eat, which is deeply uncomfortable. I've got bread in my mouth and his eyes are tracking the movement like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "She was... available."

"I was being abducted," I correct, swallowing. "Let's not dress it up. I was having a normal Tuesday and then I got stolen. That's the accurate version."

Morrigan leans forward, her dark eyes glinting. "Do you understand what you are, human? Where you are?"

"Prisoner. Magical prison. Got it."

"You're in the Twilight Court," she says, and there's something almost hungry in her smile. "The realm between worlds. The domain of beings who were ancient when your ancestors were still learning to make fire. You're not in Boston anymore, and no one from your little mortal world can reach you here."

The words should terrify me. They do terrify me, actually, but I've gotten very good at hiding that.

"Then I guess I'll have to escape without help," I say. "Good to know."

Kael makes a sound that might be a laugh. Morrigan's expression hardens.

"She's going to be a problem," Morrigan says, not to me, but to her brother. "You can feel it. We all can. She doesn't understand the hierarchy, the natural order. She thinks her mortal stubbornness is charming. It's not. It's dangerous."

"I think she's remarkable," Kael says quietly.

The words hang in the air between us, and I feel them like a physical touch. Remarkable. Not pretty, not useful, not owned—remarkable. Like I'm something worth noticing for reasons beyond what I can provide.

It's the most dangerous thing anyone's said to me since I got here.

"Don't," I say, and I'm not sure who I'm talking to. Kael, maybe. Or myself.

"Don't what?" he asks.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something you want."

The silence that follows is absolute. Morrigan's smile widens, and she stands with fluid grace.

"How delightful," she says. "Well, I'll leave you two to your... dinner. Brother, do try not to break her before the ceremony. We'll need her intact."

She leaves like she was never there, and the room feels suddenly smaller. Kael and I are alone, and he's still looking at me like I'm remarkable, and I'm still in a dress I didn't choose, and everything is terrible.

"What ceremony?" I ask.

"Later," he says. "Eat first."

"I'm not hungry anymore."

But I eat anyway, because I'm smart enough to know that I need fuel, and because if I leave, I'll have to go back to the beautiful cage and think about the way he looked at me, and that's somehow worse than this.

We eat in silence for a while. The food is incredible—things I don't have names for, flavors that don't exist in the mortal world. I hate that I enjoy it. I hate that he's watching me enjoy it. I hate that there's a part of me that's starting to understand why people let themselves be kept.

"Tell me something," I say finally.

"Anything."

"Why me? There have to be thousands of fae women who would actually want to be here. Why steal a human from Boston?"

Kael sets down his fork. He's barely eaten anything, I realize. Just been watching. Waiting.

"Because I've been surrounded by fae women for two hundred years," he says. "Because they all want the same things—power, status, the crown. Because I was tired of being wanted for what I am instead of who I am."

"And you think I'm different?"

"I know you are."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you survived five years with a man who wanted to own you," he says quietly. "I know you fought back. I know you got out. I know you're still fighting, even now, even though you're terrified. That's not something I can find in anyone else."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

"How do you know that?" My voice is very small.

"I have my ways," he says. "And I know you're thinking about how to get out of here. How to escape. You've already mapped the exits, haven't you? You've been testing the windows and the doors and looking for weaknesses."

"Are you going to punish me for that?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I want you to try," he says, and something in his eyes glows brighter. "I want you to fight. I want you to be exactly as impossible as you are right now, because the moment you stop fighting is the moment you're no longer remarkable. And I didn't bring you here to break you, Iris. I brought you here to—"

He stops himself, but it's too late. I can feel what he didn't say, hanging in the air between us like humidity before a storm.

"To what?" I whisper.

He stands, and I realize he's been holding himself very still this entire time. Very controlled. Like he's been sitting on something that wants to break loose.

"Come with me," he says.

"No."

But I'm already standing, already moving toward him, because I've survived five years of abuse by learning to read men and predict their moves, and I can see that Kael Thornwick is barely holding onto his control, and I need to know what happens when he doesn't.

He reaches out and takes my hand—just my hand, just that simple contact—and the world narrows to the point where his fingers meet my wrist.

His skin is cool, almost cold, and it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with temperature. His scent wraps around me: night-blooming jasmine and ozone and something wild like lightning before a storm. It's intoxicating. It's terrifying.

"I brought you here because I've been alone for two hundred years," he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes my pulse race. "And when I found you, I felt less alone for the first time since I took the crown. I don't know what that means yet, but I know I'm not letting you go."

"That's not love," I say. "That's just loneliness."

"Maybe," he agrees. "But it's honest. More honest than anything else in this Court."

He brings my hand to his chest, and I can feel his heart beating beneath the silk. Fast. Uncontrolled. Proof that he's not as composed as he pretends.

"You're my prisoner," I say, but I'm not pulling away.

"Yes."

"This is—"

"Complicated. Yes."

His other hand comes up to cup my face, and his thumb traces my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes something in me want to shatter. I haven't been touched gently in so long that I've almost forgotten what it feels like. I don't trust it. I don't trust him.

But I'm not pulling away.

"If I kiss you," he says, "you're going to hate me for it."

"Probably," I agree.

"But you want me to anyway."

It's not a question. He can read the answer in the way my breathing has changed, the way my pupils have dilated, the way I'm not pulling away even though every survival instinct I have is screaming at me to run.

"Yes," I whisper, and it's the most dangerous thing I've admitted to anyone.

He leans down, and I can feel the heat of him now, the way his body draws mine like gravity. His scent is overwhelming—jasmine and lightning and something ancient and wild that makes my brain stop working properly.

His lips are almost touching mine when the door slams open.

Rowan stands in the doorway, amber eyes blazing, and the moment shatters like glass.

"My lord," he says, and his voice is tight with something I can't identify. "There's a problem. The wards on the eastern gate are failing."

Kael pulls away, but he doesn't let go of my hand. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing hard, silver eyes burning.

"I'll be right there," he says finally.

He squeezes my hand once—a promise or a threat, I can't tell—and then he's gone, leaving me alone with Rowan and the ghost of what almost happened.

"You need to leave," Rowan says quietly.

"I can't."

"You need to anyway."

He holds out his hand, and there's something in his amber eyes that looks like genuine kindness, and that's somehow more dangerous than anything Kael's offered me.

Because if I take his hand, if I let myself trust him, then I have to believe that escape is possible.

And if escape is possible, then I have to leave.

And if I have to leave, then I have to stop feeling the ghost of Kael's lips against mine, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough for that yet.

I let Rowan lead me back to the beautiful cage.

And I don't sleep.