Amaya's heart almost stopped at the voice on the phone.
Her eyes widened, staring into nothing. Her body froze like a statue, and her heart pounded so hard it stole her breath.
With trembling fingers, she slowly lowered the phone from her ear, her gaze glued to the screen. The caller ID still read Monica Caldwell—but the voice… that voice had been unmistakable.
Kieran Blackwood.
Her boss.
But how?
Her breath hitched, fingers turning stiff and cold. She hadn't called him. She'd dialed Monica's number, just like she always did when she had something important to report. But instead of Monica…
It was him.
Kieran's voice crackled through the speaker again—calm, but cold.
"I'd like for us to speak in private, Amaya. Don't you think so too?"
Her knees nearly gave out. Her thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of it—but nothing did.
Until it did.
The call hadn't gone to Monica.
Knight intercepted it.
Not by mistake. Not by luck. On purpose.
She remembered something Katherine once joked about: that their boss had "eyes everywhere." It felt like paranoia back then. But now?
Now, it felt terrifyingly real.
Her phone was probably compromised. Days ago, maybe even weeks. A silent virus, slipped in during an update. A mirrored line, rerouting her calls through Knight's system.
He'd been listening.
To everything.
And now...
Now, he was done listening.
Amaya stood frozen outside the kitchen window, still clutching the phone like it might burn her.
She turned, ready to bolt. Say nothing. Disappear.
But she forgot two things.
One—the call was still active.
Two—there was no escaping the estate.
"Amaya," his voice came again, softer now.
"You have five minutes to get in the black car parked by the fountain. Don't make me come get you."
The line went dead.
She stared at the screen.
No time to run. No one to call. No excuses.
Then—movement.
Two men stepped forward, like they'd been waiting in the shadows all along.
Her eyes widened as she looked up at them. She stumbled back.
"P-please. Please," she stammered, tears rushing to the backs of her eyes.
One of them smirked. "We're not going to hurt you."
The other rolled his eyes. "Why are you lying?"
The first man shrugged. "I don't even know, it just slipped out." And right then, a blue handkerchief slipped from his hand.
"Dang it, Lionel! Can't you hold a handkerchief properly? I just got that," the second man—Marcus—snapped, smacking Lionel's head lightly and bending down to pick it up.
Amaya, cornered against the wall, blinked in confusion at the odd banter. But she wasn't about to waste it. Slowly, she began inching away—only for Marcus to stand and catch her movement instantly.
"Hey," he called out, his deep baritone voice stopping her cold. He took two steps toward her, towering over her now.
She closed her eyes, bracing for the worst.
But instead, he said, "Hey, can you smell this? I think this idiot dropping it gave it a weird smell."
Her eyes snapped open. She looked from his face to the blue handkerchief he was holding out to her.
"Go on. What does it smell like?"
Confused, she hesitated, then reached for it and sniffed.
"Hmm. What do you get?" he asked.
She sniffed again, her nose wrinkling. "Lavender… and something else. Like… lemon?"
Marcus tilted his head. "Lemon, huh?"
She sniffed once more—slowly this time.
And then—something clicked.
Her expression shifted.
Her eyes went too wide. Her skin turned pale.
She staggered back, hand dropping the handkerchief.
Marcus just stared, almost bored. Lionel was already walking toward the car, muttering something about needing coffee.
Then, without a sound, Amaya collapsed.
No scream. No warning.
Just—plop.
Marcus caught her just before her head hit the ground. "Well. There she goes."
Lionel glanced back. "She finally fainted?"
"Yup." Marcus lifted her into his arms. "That smell must've hit her all at once."
"Or maybe," Lionel said, opening the car door, "her brain finally caught up."
They loaded her in the back seat—gently enough, but not exactly worried.
Marcus looked down at her unconscious face and grinned.
"She's gonna have a fun wake-up."
The door slammed shut. The car rolled off. A faint trace of lavender and lemon lingered in the air.
Amaya's eyes blinked open to darkness.
Cold bit at her skin. Her wrists burned with the sting of tight zip ties. And just like that, it all came rushing back—Lionel. Marcus. The stupid lavender.
Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry.
She tried to shift, but pain shot through her. Her back was pressed to a cold metal pole. Her legs lay splayed out on concrete.
Then she noticed it.
A faint orange glow.
A soft drag.
And the slow, steady sound of breathing.
She turned her head.
And there he was.
Sitting casually in a chair right in front of her. One leg crossed over the other. One arm resting on the backrest. A cigarette balanced between his fingers.
Kieran Blackwood.
Knight.
No Charming smile. No expensive suits. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, smoke curling around his sharp features. His eyes locked onto hers with quiet interest—like she was a puzzle he'd finally solved.
He took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled slowly.
"Took you long enough," he said flatly.
Her stomach twisted.
She didn't say anything. Couldn't.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"I'll give you one chance," he said, standing slowly. "Tell me what Monica's planning. What she's hiding."
Amaya licked her lips. Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean—"
Knight stepped closer, towering above her now, casting a long shadow over her bound body.
He shook his head slowly. "No, no, no, Maya. I don't want excuses. I want answers. Or I swear, I'll turn you into him."
He pointed to her right—without even glancing that way.
Curious and horrified, she looked.
And instantly regretted it.
Her blood turned to ice.
There, slumped in a chair, was a man she vaguely remembered from the estate. A doctor. She wasn't sure how she recognized him—his eyes were missing, just dark, oozing sockets. Blood streamed down his face. Daggers were jammed into his chest and legs. His mouth hung open, most of his teeth gone. And on a metal tray beside him...
His fingernails and Teeths. Neatly arranged like a collection.
A scream clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down.
Barely.
"For far too long," he said, his voice low, almost amused, "I've been too calm."
She turned to him, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her whole body trembled as if she were staring at the devil himself.
"P-please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me. I'll tell you everything."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something far too eager. Then came that smile—slow, sharp, and wrong in all the ways that made her blood run cold.
"That's a good girl," he purred. "Start from the top."
He took a step closer, crouching beside her, his eyes never leaving hers.
"And when you're done," he added, voice dipped lower, "I've got a little task for you."
His smile widened.
"You'll like it. It's messy."