Sloane's POV
I woke to silk sheets again, and this time, the rage hit before the confusion.
Heat flooded through me, not the pleasant warmth of sunlight, but something molten and vicious that started in my gut and spread outward. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. My hands curled into fists before I was fully conscious, nails biting into my palms. The hollow throb in my chest sharpened into something fiercer, meaner. My whole body felt coiled tight and ready to snap.
My eyes opened to soft morning light filtering through those useless warded windows. My whole body ached like I'd been hit by a truck, but it was the hollow throb in my chest that made me want to scream.
Three days. Had to be three days, judging by the meals that kept appearing and the growing collection of books scattered around my bed.
Three days of waking up in this luxurious prison.
Three days of nobody explaining a damn thing.
I sat up violently, shoving the silk sheets away like they'd burned me. The pajamas—my pajamas, taken from my apartment along with everything else—twisted around my legs as I kicked them free and swung over the side of the bed. Too fast. My head spun, vision blurring at the edges, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. My hands shook with the need to hit something, break something, do anything except sit here docile and compliant.
I was done being compliant. Done being the good little prisoner waiting patiently for answers.
I grabbed the book I'd fallen asleep reading—something about shadow manifestation techniques—and hurled it at the locked door.
It hit with a satisfying thud.
Didn't open the door. Didn't summon help. Didn't do anything except make me feel slightly better for half a second before the frustration came roaring back.
"Hey!" I shouted at the door, my voice hoarse from disuse. "I know someone's out there! You can't keep me locked up like this!"
Nothing. Just like every other time I'd yelled.
My hands curled into fists. The hollow ache in my chest pulsed, and I pressed my palm against it, trying to will it away. It never worked. That emptiness—that wrongness where something had lived for thirty seconds before being ripped out—never went away.
You're my mate. And I reject you.
I shoved the memory down. Pushed it into the same dark corner where I'd been shoving all my terror and confusion for three days.
Focus on what you can control, Sloane. Figure out what the hell you are. Figure out how to get out.
I've been reading obsessively. The hidden library had become my sanctuary—the only place that felt like mine, even though it clearly wasn't. The books told me things. Gave me answers even if they raised a thousand more questions.
I was Umbra-Blooded. A shadow witch. Part of a bloodline that was supposed to be extinct, hunted down and killed during some purge a century ago.
And I had powers. Magic I couldn't feel, couldn't access, couldn't—
The shadows in the corner of the room shifted.
I froze, my heart lurching into my throat. Stared at the darkness pooling beneath the wardrobe.
It had moved. I was sure of it. Just slightly, like it was reaching toward me.
"No," I whispered. "No no no, not again."
But even as I said it, some part of me wanted it to move again. Wanted to feel that strange pull, that connection to something beyond myself.
I was losing it. Had to be. Normal people didn't talk to shadows.
Normal people weren't Umbra-Blooded witches locked in magical fortresses by supernatural kings who called them mates and then shattered the bond like it meant nothing.
The knock on the door made me jump.
Not the main door—the other one. The one leading to the hallway I wasn't allowed to access.
My pulse kicked up. I grabbed the nearest book like it was a weapon—pathetic, but it was all I had—and faced the door.
The lock clicked. The handle turned.
A man stepped inside.
Not the one from the gallery. Not the green-eyed king who'd rejected me and vanished. This one was different—shorter, though still tall by normal standards. Dark brown hair that looked windswept even though we were indoors. Warm amber eyes that tracked me with the same predatory awareness all these people seemed to have.
He held up both hands in a gesture of peace. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Yeah?" My voice came out sharp, defensive. "Then what are you here for? To bring me another meal I won't eat? More clothes I didn't ask for?"
Something that might have been sympathy flickered across his face. "To talk. If you'll let me."
"Talk." I tasted the word, found it bitter. "About what? How long you plan on keeping me a prisoner? Or what you're planning to do with me?"
"About why you're here. About what you are." He stayed in the doorway, not approaching, like he could sense how close I was to throwing the book at his head. "My name is Kael Morrison. I'm Rhys's Beta. His second-in-command."
Rhys. So that was the king's name.
"Great." I didn't lower the book. "So you're here on his orders. To what, check on his pet heretic?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "You're not a pet. Or a prisoner, despite appearances."
"Funny." I gestured at the locked door with my free hand. "Because I can't leave. That's pretty much the definition of a prisoner."
"You can't leave because every faction in this city wants you dead or worse." His voice was level, matter-of-fact. "The vampires think you're an abomination. The Fae want to study you. The other Lycan packs want to eliminate the threat you represent. You're safer here."
My laugh came out broken. "Safe. Right. That's why I feel so secure."
He studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. Not locking it—I heard the absence of the click—just giving us privacy.
"You have questions," he said. "Ask them."
The invitation caught me off guard. My throat went tight.
"Why?" The word came out smaller than I wanted. "Why did he—why did your king reject the mate bond?"
Something painful crossed Kael's face. "That's not my story to tell."
"Then whose story is it?" My voice cracked. "Because I'm the one who felt it break. I'm the one with this—this hole in my chest that won't stop hurting. And nobody will tell me why."
Kael's expression softened. "I'm sorry. Truly. But some answers have to come from him."
"Well he's not here, is he?" The words burst out, sharp and angry and desperate. "He hasn't shown his face once in three days. So maybe you could give me something. Anything. Because I'm going insane here."
Kael was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled out the chair by the desk and sat, a gesture that somehow made him less threatening. More human, despite the predator stillness he carried.
"What do you know about Umbra-Blooded witches?" he asked.
I swallowed hard. Set the book down on the bed, my hands shaking slightly. "I know they were hunted. Killed. That there was a purge and everyone thought they were extinct."
"They were hunted because of lies," Kael said. "Spread by a vampire lord named Cassius Ashcraft. He painted your people as demons, convinced the supernatural factions that Umbra-Blooded were a threat to everyone. The truth is, he wanted their power for himself."
"And the purge worked." My voice came out hollow. "They're all dead."
"Almost all." His amber eyes held mine. "Your parents survived. They hid. They kept YOU hidden. But someone found out about you. Set you up to steal that artifact—a bloodline detector. The moment you touched it, everyone in that gallery knew what you were."
The pieces clicked together in my head. The too-easy job. The handler who'd smelled wrong. The artifact that had glowed violet the second I'd grabbed it.
"Someone wanted me exposed." My stomach dropped. "Why?"
"We're working on that." Kael leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Rhys has investigators tracing the job back to its source. But whoever did this, they're connected. Powerful. And they're not done."
Fear coiled in my gut, cold and slick. "What do they want?"
"Your power. Your bloodline." He paused. "Or your death. Depends on the faction."
The casual way he said it made my hands go clammy. "And your king? What does he want?"
"He wants you alive." Kael's voice was firm. "That's why you're here. That's why he faked your death to the other factions. You're supposed to have drowned trying to escape. As long as they believe that, you're safe."
My breath caught. "He faked my death?"
"He had to. The alternative was handing you over to be executed or controlled. This was the only way."
I sank down onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. My mind raced, trying to process.
He'd lied to protect me. Had locked me up, yes, but to keep me alive.
It didn't make the cage any less real. Didn't explain the rejection that had torn through me like broken glass.
But it was something. An answer, even if it raised more questions.
"The books," I said suddenly. "In the hidden library. Whose are those?"
Kael's expression shifted. "They belonged to Rhys's mother. Elyria Sterling. She was Umbra-Blooded."
Everything stopped. My heart, my breath, my thoughts.
"His mother," I repeated slowly. "Was like me."
"Yes. She died protecting him during the purge. These were her chambers. He's never let anyone stay here since." Kael's voice was gentle. "Until you."
The weight of that settled over me. He'd put me in his dead mother's room. He'd given me access to her books, her knowledge, her magic.
Why?
"I don't understand," I whispered.
"Neither does he, I think." Kael stood. "But for what it's worth, Miss Wylde, you're not a prisoner. You're protected. There's a difference."
He moved toward the door, then paused. "If you need anything, ask the staff. They'll bring it. And..." He hesitated. "The books in the library. Read them. Learn from them. Your powers are manifesting whether you want them to or not. Better to understand them than fear them."
"My powers." The words felt strange in my mouth. "I haven't felt anything except—" Except the shadows moving. Except that voice in the darkness.
"You will." He opened the door. "Give it time."
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Not locking. I heard it clearly this time—no click of the lock engaging.
I sat there for a long moment, my mind spinning.
Then, slowly, I stood and walked to the door. Put my hand on the handle and turned it.
It opened.
The hallway beyond was empty. Quiet. But the door was unlocked.
I could leave this room.
But where would I go? Out into a fortress full of Lycans who might or might not see me as a threat? Into a city where every faction wanted me dead?
I closed the door again. Stepped back.
Not a prisoner, Kael had said. Protected.
I wasn't sure I believed that yet.
But I had answers now. Small ones. And I had a name—Elyria Sterling. Rhys's mother. The woman whose books filled the hidden library, whose voice I'd heard in the darkness.
You are not alone, little shadow.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling that hollow ache pulse.
Maybe I wasn't alone.
Maybe, for the first time in my life, I had people. A history. A legacy.
Even if I was trapped in it.
I walked back to the hidden passage, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and descended into the library.
Time to learn what I could do.
Time to stop being afraid of the shadows.
Because if they thought I was dangerous enough to lock up, to lie about, to protect...
Then maybe it was time to find out just how dangerous I could be.