The chandelier’s dim light cast eerie shadows across the walls of the Heathens’ mansion, the air thick with tension and the hum of unspoken words. She stood at the center, frozen, her presence a stark anomaly in a room filled with power and danger. She didn’t belong here, but it didn’t matter—she was here now, and they had no intention of letting her go.

Jeremy Volkov was the first to move, his red mask catching the faint light as he stepped forward with deliberate calm. His piercing green eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding, holding her in place. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous blend of charm and warning. “But now that you’re here… I think you should stay. Don’t you?”

From the side, Gareth Carson’s steady, composed voice followed, cutting through the silence like a blade. His green mask glinted as he leaned against a column, his calculating gaze dissecting her every movement. “She’s exactly where she needs to be,” he said with a small, knowing smirk. “Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.”

Killian Carson’s laughter broke the tension, low and almost amused. His red mask gleamed as he took a step closer, his wild blue eyes alight with a chaotic intensity. “Oh, she knows,” he said, his grin sharp and wolfish. “You feel it, don’t you? The question is, are you brave enough to admit it?”

Behind her, Nikolai Sokolov loomed like a shadow, his yellow mask glowing faintly in the dim light. “She belongs to us now,” he said in a voice low and resolute. “And no one takes what’s ours.”

Vaughn Morozov stood at the edge, his white mask concealing his quiet intensity. “You caught our attention,” he said softly. “That means you’re ours. No one escapes.”

There was no escape—not now, not ever.