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His eyes meet mine. And they are not soft. Not confused or apologetic. They are dead. Cold as slate, sharp as broken glass. The kind of eyes that only ever pretended to care. Something ancient and cruel flickers behind them—like the monster he’s been trying to keep caged finally slipped its leash.
Saxon was right.
Zack Morgan isn’t just untrustworthy. He’s not a misunderstood flirt with trauma buried under boyish charm. He is a lie. A wolf in expensive shoes. A predator wearing the skin of a nice guy. And I let him in. God, I let him in.
I want to scream. To rake my nails down my own arms for being so blind. For mistaking manipulation for affection. His cool exterior and his lazy, charming smile; it was all bait.
Who are you, Zack? What do you want?
He steps forward slowly, like he's strolling into a goddamn therapy session.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he says, voice low. Almost sad.Fake, fake, fake.
I say nothing. Because silence isn’t surrender. It’s strategy.
He circles me, lingering casually, as though I’m not tied to a chair and my life doesn’t hang in the balance.
“I told my father it was overkill,” he muses. “Planting me in your life? You were already broken. But then he saw you at the Gatti gala. Put back together. All shiny and beautiful again. He said you needed reconditioning.”
His voice turns syrupy. Mocking. Like he’s proud of himself.
“He’s always had a soft spot for high-ticket merchandise.”
That word is like a hammer to the ribs.
“Your father?” I ask, my voice controlled. Fear slithers through my chest like a living thing. He doesn’t answer. Just keeps talking. Spinning his web.
“You started cozying up to that Fed. The broody one. I knew it was only a matter of time before he got too close. And you? You started letting him in. You couldn’t just save yourself and stay close to me…”
I can’t make sense of whether this is about me or Saxon.
“So you played the nice guy,” I rasp. “The savior.”
He shrugs. Smirks. “I didn’tplayanything, Maxine. Iama nice guy.”
The laugh that bursts from me is raw. Bitter. Ugly. But it dies on a snort, because nothing about this is funny.
“Who is your father, Zack?”
He tilts his head, too casual. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”
“And when I do?”
His silence presses against the air—heavy, suffocating—like a weight dropped between us that no one can lift. Because that’s when it hits me, like a wrecking ball to the chest. My lungscollapse. My stomach caves. Because I know exactly what he’s saying without uttering the words.
Whoever his father is, whatever title or power he hides behind, I know one thing with gut-wrenching certainty—I’m no safer with him than I am with Zack. Maybe even less. And sitting here now, bound and bruised, I realize—being in his hands is like being wrapped in silk right before you’re strangled with it.
My skin recoils. My throat closes. The air turns acidic.
Zack has always known who I was. What I survived. He sought me out, did his father’s bidding - whoever the man may be - which could only mean one thing; his father is part of the Aviary. He must be. How else would he know me?
I feel sick and my stomach lurches, threatening to release its contents as Zack crouches in front of me again, his expression soft—almost gentle. For a split second, it could almost pass for human. But I know better now. Whatever decency might’ve once lived in him died a long time ago, buried beneath the lies, the manipulation, the hunger for control.
“I was supposed to keep you compliant. Make sure you didn’t remember too much. Or talk too loud.” He stands again, brushing off his knees. “You almost passed the test, Maxine. But you went rogue, took a liking to that damn Fed.”
“I haven’t told anyone anything,” I bite out.
His smile twists. Nasty. Eager.