Page 21

??Cages With Silk Bars

Ember

I woke to silence.

Not peace.

Silence.

The kind that listened. The kind that waited.

The fire had died down in the hearth, but the room was still warm. Too warm. My skin felt like it’s been kissed by smoke and eyes I couldn’t see.

The bed was too soft. The sheets smelled like clove, midnight, and him.

Dorian Vale.

Defense attorney. Butcher. Executioner.

And now… jailer.

I sat up slowly, sheets sliding off bare legs. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember giving in to the comfort he had curated like a perfect lie. The silk robe folded neatly at the foot of the bed was my size.

Of course it was.

I rose and wrapped it around me, my pulse steady even though it shouldn’t be.

The door was sealed. I already knew that. The last time I touched the handle, something beneath the metal whispered. Something I’d never felt before. Ancient. Hungry. The shadows flinched when I got too close.

He’s watching me.

Somehow.

Always.

But he wasn’t here now.

Good.

I stepped to the mirror, brushed my fingers through my hair, and caught my own eyes in the reflection. I didn’t look scared. I looked pissed. Curious. Dangerous in a different way.

He thought I was his secret. But he’s mine, too now.

When he finally entered, it was without a knock. Just the sound of the lock disengaging, like a leash being yanked.

Dorian stepped in like he owned the oxygen.

And maybe he did.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. The veins in his forearms pulsed beneath his sleeves. His magic rolled off him in waves, dark, ancient, erotic.

I folded my arms. “If I’m going to be a hostage, I’d like better coffee.”

He smirked. “You’ll drink what I bring you.”

“Mm. Control issues noted.”

He raised a brow. “You’re remarkably well-adjusted for someone held captive in a sorcerer’s mansion.”

“Sorcerer. Wow. That almost makes you sound less like a psychopath.”

He moved closer. The air tightened between us. “Even though you’re stuck in this room, I’ll give you your mic. Your setup. You will still have your voice, Ember.”

“As long as I don’t say the wrong things,” I bit back. “Which is code for, as long as I don’t say the true things.”

His jaw ticked.

I smiled.

Got you.

“Touchy,” I murmured. “Struck a nerve, Vale?”

He stalked toward me now, each step slow and deliberate. Shadows curled along the walls like they’re listening. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, stepping into him. Our chests almost touched. “I think I do.” He watched me. Eyes darkened. Unreadable. “You’ve killed monsters, Dorian,” I whispered. “But what happens when the monster fights back?”

His hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Light. Reverent. “Then I chain her to my bed,” he murmured, “and see how long it takes before she begs to stay.”

My breath caught.

“Confident.”

“No,” he said, lower now. “ Certain. ”

I hated the way my body leaned into his like it was starved. I hated the way his voice slipped down my spine like a kiss. I hated how badly I wanted to know what he tasted like when he lost control.

I let my hand rest on his chest. His heart beat steady. I flattened my palm, feeling the heat beneath his skin.

“Why me?” I asked, softly now. “Why not just kill me like the others?”

His lips ghosted against mine. Not kissing. Threatening.

“Because none of them ever made me want to burn this slow.”

My robe slipped lower on one shoulder. His gaze followed it like a starving man, but he didn't touch me.

Not yet.

We’re playing with matches in a room full of gunpowder. I could tip my mouth up. I could pull him in. I could give in.

But not yet.

“Careful,” I whispered, brushing my lips near his ear. “You chain me too tight, and I might just like it.”

He exhaled like it physically cost him to step back.

But he did.

Barely.

“Eat,” he said, voice like gravel now. “Record. Behave.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll stop pretending I’m a man,” he said, eyes dragging down my body, “and show you what I really am.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sat back on the bed, pulse racing, lips dry, thighs pressed too tight together. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

But neither did he.

And that’s the first crack in the Devil’s armor.