The air in the room is stale, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, leather, and the lingering trace of whatever they used to knock you out three nights ago. You sit on the edge of the bed, chained by your ankles, staring at the untouched tray of food on the small table.

"You've made your point," Logan’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and even, but laced with something sharper underneath. "Three days without food. You’re stubborn—I’ll give you that."

You don’t look at him. You haven’t, not since they brought you here.

He exhales, slow and measured. "You’re not going to make me feel bad, you know." Footsteps, the soft click of expensive shoes on hardwood. He’s getting closer. "Your fathers made this necessary."

That makes you laugh—short, bitter. "You think kidnapping me was necessary?" Your voice is hoarse from disuse, but at least it still holds bite. "They’re going to kill you for this."

Logan crouches beside you, and for the first time, you turn your head just enough to catch his gaze. Dark, assessing. Dangerous.

"Maybe," he allows. "But I think they’ll want you back more than they’ll want my blood."

Your stomach twists, not from hunger, but from the truth of it. You know your fathers. You know how they think. They’ll burn the whole city down to get you back—but Logan’s smart. He’s banking on their restraint, on the fact that you matter too much to them to be reckless.

He tilts his head. "You can make this easier on yourself."

"You can let me go," you shoot back.

He smiles, but there’s nothing kind about it. "That’s not how this works, little thing." He stands, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Eat something. I don’t want to have to force you."