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Exhaustion washes over me in a wave. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait?”

“For now, yes.” He returns to his desk, turning his back to me, clearly finished with our conversation.

I look around the chamber, taking stock of my surroundings more carefully than my earlier panic allowed. There’s his desk with its chair, a small table with another seat, shelves lined with books, and a low neatly made bed set into an alcove on the far side. I move to the chair near the table, as far from him as possible, and sit down.

There’s fresh bread and fruit laid out on the plate, replacing the food that had been there last night. I didn’t see him prepare it or bring it in. And if there’s no door, where is he getting it from?

Another unanswered question in this tower of impossibilities.

I pick up a slice of bread and bite into it. It’s dense, slightly sweet—strange, but good. The fruit is stranger still, its flesh firm with a spicy aftertaste that makes my tongue tingle.

While I eat, I watch him. He reads as though I’m not here, turning pages, and occasionally making notes in a separate book. His movements are smooth, controlled. Even the way he holds the quill pen seems deliberate.

He hasn’t looked up since I sat down. From this angle, I can see the side of his face—his head tilted slightly down, eyes lowered to the book in front of him. His lashes are long, unnaturally dark against his skin. His hair is black, not brown-black, but more like a raven’s wing. Blue-black, or maybe that’s the odd light shining on it. It’s straight, tucked behind one ear on the side I can see, and brushes the base of his neck where it falls loose. A single thin braid with small black beads weaved into the hair hangs down, the ends brushing against his collarbone.

His profile is all sharp angles and clean lines. High cheekbones and a jawline that looks like it could cut glass. His mouth is set in a firm line beneath a nose that’s straight and defined. There’s nothing soft about his features. It’s the kind of face that commands attention rather than invites it.

His clothing is like nothing I’ve seen before, unless you count costume dramas or fantasy movies. He’s wearing a long coat that falls to his knees, almost like a tailored Victorian jacket, but with a different cut. It’s dark, black or possibly deep blue in this light, with a thin line of stitching along the cuffs, dark-on-dark, easy to miss unless you’re looking.

He turns the page, and the noise snaps me out of my examination.

“How long have you been here?” I can’t stay quiet any longer. It’s driving me crazy.

He lifts his head. “A long time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.” He lowers his gaze again.

I finish eating in silence, aware of every move he makes, and every one he doesn’t. The quiet feels wrong. It’s not just the lack of sound, it’s the lack oflife. No hum of traffic. No voices bleeding through a wall. No flicker from a screen left on too long. Just the turn of pages, and the scratch of his pen.

I glance at the ceiling. It glows with the same steady light as the walls.

Questions pile up in my mind, getting louder the longer I try not to think about them.

How did I get here? Why this tower? Where did the door go? And most importantly, how do I get home?

But the most disturbing thing of all is the man across the chamber.

Sacha.

I don’t know what he’s keeping from me, but he is not telling me everything. I’m certain of that. His careful answers and cryptic statements hint at deeper knowledge, and right now I don’t know if that knowledge will help or hold me here.

My fingers curl against the base of the chair, and a chill crawls up my spine. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the growing realization that I really am trapped here, in this place, with no clear way home.

For now, I have no choice but to wait. To watch, and to listen, while I try to understand the rules of this place and the man who inhabits it. And hope that when the door finally reappears, I can make my way through it and back to the world I know.

Chapter Four

SACHA

“Power often arrives as a question, not an answer.”

The Nature of Veinblood Rebirth

She’s studyingme from across the room, tension visible in every line of her body. The wariness in her eyes is both amusing and useful. Fear makes people predictable and easier to manipulate. It narrows their focus, and limits their thinking, until they can only see the most immediate threat. And right now, her fear is directing her attention exactly where I want it. On escaping, and not questioning who I am or why I’m here.

I turn the page in my book, pretending to read while observing her. She’s recovered somewhat from her ordeal in the desert. Water and food have brought color back to her cheeks, although sunburn still marks her skin with angry red patches. Her movements are less jerky and more controlled now, no longer as desperate. She’s thinking rather than simply reacting.