You wake up to softness.

It's not the kind of softness that makes you feel safe... it feels like a trap in disguise.

The silk sheets beneath you feel cool against your skin. The mattress is wide and expensive, the kind only found in penthouse suites or royal bedrooms. You can faintly smell leather, cedar and something masculine.

You sit up quickly, your pulse spiking.

This is not your home. This is not your family’s estate. This is...

You swing your legs out of bed and your feet hit the cold, polished marble floor, jolting you fully awake. Your mind catches up with the last thing you remember: the ambush in the alley behind the docks, the masked men and the tattooed hand closing around your mouth.

You’ve been captured.

But… strangely… treated like a guest.

If prisoners were held in designer prisons, that is.

The room is furnished with rich oak furniture, an antique vanity unit, a velvet chaise longue and a crystal-dripping chandelier. There is no lock on the door, at least not on the inside. But you know better than to think that means anything.

You try it anyway.

The handle turns, but the door doesn’t budge.

Electrified lock. Reinforced frame. Possibly fingerprint-coded.

You try the windows next. Sealed. Bulletproof.

You try the balcony. No balcony.

You scour the room for any weaknesses, such as vents or hinges, but it's pointless. They planned this too well.

Your hands curl into fists just as the door unlocks with a click.

He walks in as if he owns the place.

Like he owns you.

Alyster fills the doorway with his tall, broad frame. As always, he is dressed in black, and his tattoos peek out from beneath his collar and sleeve. His brown curls are slightly messy, as though he has run his hands through them on his way here or just woken up from a fight.

His eyes land on you instantly. “Morning, princess.”

His voice is a slow, dangerous drawl. It's deep enough to vibrate through your ribs and casual enough to make your blood boil.

You glare at him. “Let me go.”

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

A smirk curves his mouth. “You tried the windows, didn’t you?”

He strolls further into the room with his hands in his pockets, acting as if this isn't a k/dnapping and as if he's checking on a guest in a hotel he personally designed.

He circles you once, slowly enough that you can feel the weight of his gaze on your skin.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he says. “My father wanted a cell. I said that would be… unnecessarily rude.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re using me to get to my father.”

He shrugs, stopping in front of you. “Everyone’s useful to someone.”

The worst part? He’s too close.

You lift your chin. “You think a fancy prison is going to make me cooperate?”

“No.” His voice dips, amused. “But it might make you less inclined to throw things at me.”

Your glare intensifies. “You underestimate me.”

“Oh, believe me,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer. “I don’t underestimate a single thing about you.”

You hate the way your stomach tightens and the confidence radiating off him.

You hate the way he looks at you as though you’re a challenge he intends to win.

He speaks again, softer this time, almost too soft for someone like him. “Don’t try to escape again.”

You stiffen. “Or what?”

He smirks. “Or I’ll have to stay in here with you until you stop.”

Your breath catches for a moment.

He opens the door to leave, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “You’re here until your father decides what’s worth more to him,” he says. “In the meantime…” His gaze flicks down, then up again. “I’ll be around.”