Dawn broke over the estate like a bruise—purple and gray, bleeding into the horizon. I hadn't slept. My knees still phantom-ached from kneeling on the hardwood floor of Cassian's study, and my pride ached even worse.
I had begged to stay in my cage. And he had said yes.
I dressed quickly, avoiding the mirror. I pulled on black jeans and a thick sweater, armor against the chill of the house. I packed a single duffel bag as ordered: two changes of clothes, toiletries, and the only photo I had of my mother—a blurry Polaroid of a woman laughing in a garden I didn't remember.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, the heart of the house that usually smelled of coffee and regret.
He was there.
Not Cassian. Rook.
The massive enforcer stood by the island, his frame so large he blocked out the light from the garden window. He was six-foot-seven of pure muscle and scar tissue, with a shaved head and eyes that had seen too much death. He was Cassian's shadow, his executioner, and the only person in this house who had ever shown me kindness.
He turned as I entered, his face impassive. He didn't speak. He couldn't. His tongue had been cut out years ago—a punishment from a rival family before Cassian took him in.
He tapped the marble counter twice. Coffee.
I managed a weak smile. "Morning, Rook."
He slid a steaming mug toward me, black, two sugars. Just how I liked it. Then, he raised his large, scarred hands, his fingers moving with surprising grace. American Sign Language. He had taught me himself when I was twelve, mostly so he'd have someone to talk to.
'You look like a ghost,' he signed.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, seeking warmth. "I didn't sleep well."
'He is taking you with us,' Rook signed, his movements sharp. 'Bad idea.'
"He wanted to kick me out," I whispered, glancing at the doorway to make sure we were alone. "I begged him to let me stay. I didn't have a choice, Rook. I can't survive out there."
Rook stopped wiping the counter. He looked at me, his dark eyes sad. He signed slowly, emphasizing every word.
'The cage is safe. But the butcher is hungry. Be careful, Little Bird.'
A chill skated down my spine. Before I could ask him what he meant, the sound of gravel crunching under tires echoed from the driveway.
We both froze. Cars were arriving.
"Is that the transport?" I asked.
Rook shook his head. 'No. It's Her.'
My stomach dropped. I knew who Her was.
The front door opened with a heavy thud, followed by the click-clack of stilettos on the marble foyer. The sound was sharp, confident, and predatory.
"Cassian?" A woman's voice floated down the hall. smooth, smoky, and laced with entitlement. "The car is ready. Are we leaving or are you still playing house?"
Claudia.
She swept into the kitchen a moment later, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Claudia was everything I wasn't. She was thirty, poised, and lethal. She wore a white power suit that cost more than my entire existence, her dark hair slicked back in a severe, perfect bob. She was the Consigliere for the Rossi family—Cassian's business partner, and the woman the rumors said warmed his bed when he was away on business.
Her eyes landed on me, and her red lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Ah," she purred. " The ward. I see we haven't taken out the trash yet."
Rook growled low in his throat, a vibrating warning sound, but Claudia ignored him. She walked over to the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup as if she owned the place.
"I'm not trash," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "And I'm coming with you."
Claudia paused, the cup halfway to her lips. She looked at me, then burst into a laugh that sounded like breaking glass.
"You?" she scoffed. "To the Auction? Oh, honey. You'll be eaten alive before we even get to the appetizers."
"I can handle myself," I lied.
"Can you?" Claudia took a step closer, invading my personal space. She smelled of Chanel No. 5 and cold ambition. She reached out, her manicured nail tracing the line of my jaw—mocking the exact spot Cassian had bruised the night before. "You have a pretty face, Elena. But in our world, pretty things break. Or they get sold."
"That's enough."
Cassian's voice sliced through the tension like a knife.
He stood in the doorway, dressed in tactical black—cargo pants, combat boots, and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest. He was holstering a Glock at his hip. He looked less like a businessman today and more like a soldier going to war.
He didn't look at me. He looked at Claudia.
"The girl is with me," Cassian said flatly. "She rides in my car."
Claudia's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, jealousy flashing in her eyes, before she recovered. "Of course, Cassian. Whatever you say. But don't blame me if she cries when the bullets start flying."
She cast one last dismissive look at me and strutted out of the room. "I'll be in the SUV."
When she was gone, the silence rushed back in. Cassian finally looked at me. His gaze swept over my sweater, my jeans, and the duffel bag at my feet. He saw the defiance in my eyes, and the fear I was trying to hide.
"Rook," he barked. "Load the bags."
Rook nodded, grabbing my bag with one hand and brushing past Cassian with a grunt.
We were alone.
"Claudia is right," Cassian said, stepping into the room. He walked over to the knife block, pulling out a small, curved pairing knife. He tested the edge with his thumb. "You are soft, Elena. And where we are going, soft things are destroyed."
He walked over to me. I held my breath, not moving. He reached out, grabbed my hand, and pressed the handle of the knife into my palm.
"Conceal this," he ordered. "Boot or waistband. If anyone other than me or Rook touches you... you gut them. Do you understand?"
I looked down at the blade, then up at him. "Yes."
"Good." He turned for the door. "Let's go. The devil is waiting."