The library did not feel like a room anymore; it felt like a throat, and Ivy Blackwood was currently being swallowed whole.
The air smelled of aged vellum, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold blood—his blood, perhaps, or merely the lingering scent of the violence he kept tethered to his skin. Sebastian Cross stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the moonlight carving him into a sculpture of jagged, lethal intent. His shirt, once pristine, was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the hollow of a throat that looked like it had been carved from marble.
Ivy pulled against the restraints, but the velvet ribbons binding her wrists to the heavy mahogany chair were deceptive. They felt soft against her skin, but they held with the unyielding stubbornness of iron.
"You look disappointed, Miss Blackwood," Sebastian murmured, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration that seemed to crawl up her spine. He didn't look at her; he was pouring a drink, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal tumbler with a sound like a tolling bell. "Did you expect me to throw you into a dungeon? Or perhaps call the authorities? You forget—the authorities are the ones who paid for your travel expenses."
Ivy forced her chin up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sebastian turned. His eyes were the color of a bruised twilight, dark and impossibly deep. He walked toward her, his movements silent, predatory, and fluid. He stopped just inches from her, close enough that she could feel the radiating heat from his body, close enough that the scent of cedar and gunpowder became the only oxygen in the room.
He reached out, his long, ink-stained fingers grazing the line of her jaw. She flinched, but he held firm, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse point at her neck. A shudder—defiant and unwilling—ripped through her.
"Your editor, Mr. Sterling, is a man of limited imagination," Sebastian whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. "He told you that you were a journalist seeking the truth about a criminal syndicate. He neglected to mention that you are a sacrifice. A sacrificial lamb sent to be slaughtered so the government could monitor my reaction. You were never meant to leave this room alive, Ivy. You were meant to be the body they found when they finally decided to burn this house to the ground."
"You're lying," she hissed, though the conviction in her own voice sounded hollow even to her.
"Am I?" He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Check your jacket pocket. The small device Sterling gave you. It isn't a recording device, my dear. It’s a beacon. A homing signal designed to broadcast my location to a tactical team the moment it’s activated."
Ivy’s breath hitched. She remembered the weight of the silver disc Sterling had pinned inside her blazer, the one he insisted she keep hidden at all costs. She felt a cold, oily dread slide down her back.
"Why tell me?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "If I’m a pawn, why keep me?"
Sebastian stepped back, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth. He walked to the desk, picked up a letter opener, and sliced through the velvet ribbons binding her wrists with a single, practiced motion. Ivy gasped, her hands falling to her lap, numbed and trembling.
"Because," he said, stalking toward the door and gesturing for her to follow, "the game has changed. They want a sacrifice. I intend to give them a ghost instead."
He opened the heavy oak doors, revealing a hallway that stretched out into the suffocating darkness of the estate. It was a labyrinth of shadows, hung with tapestries that depicted hunts and ruined empires.
"Where are we going?"
"To your new home," he said, glancing back over his shoulder. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, his expression unreadable. "You are officially a guest of the Cross estate, Ivy. But understand this: the doors are locked from the outside. The windows are barred. And should you try to run, you will find that the woods surrounding this house are not as empty as they appear."
He reached out, grabbing her hand. His grip was scorching, a searing brand against her skin that made her pulse leap. He didn't lead her away; he pulled her flush against him, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her head, forcing her to look up at him.
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth with an intensity that made the air feel thin. The library faded; the mission, the evidence, the betrayal—it all dissolved into the gravity of the man standing over her. There was a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with possession.
"You are mine now," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, raw and jagged. "Not because I want you, but because I have no choice. And trust me, Ivy… you will soon realize that being my prisoner is the safest thing you could ever hope for."
He pulled away abruptly, turning on his heel. "Follow me. And keep your head down. The house has ears, and some of them have very sharp teeth."
Ivy scrambled to her feet, her legs unsteady. She followed him into the gloom, her gaze locked on the broad, powerful expanse of his shoulders. She knew she should run. She knew she should be searching for a weapon, for a window, for an exit. But as he led her deeper into the bowels of the house, a dark, treacherous curiosity bloomed in her chest.
He led her to a wing of the house she hadn't seen on the floor plans—a corridor lined with heavy, iron-bound doors. He stopped at the very last one, producing a heavy iron key from his pocket. The lock clicked, a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the silent hallway.
He opened the door and ushered her into a room that was surprisingly opulent, draped in velvet and shadows, with a bed that looked like a throne of silk and misery.
"Stay inside," he commanded, his voice devoid of the earlier warmth.
"Sebastian—" she began, not knowing why she spoke his name, not knowing why she wanted him to stay.
He stepped back into the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering chandelier in the hall. He looked at her, his eyes tracing the line of her throat, lingering on the bruises he hadn't yet made. "Do not test the locks, Ivy. And do not scream. If you scream, I will come to silence you. And we both know you wouldn't hate it as much as you think you would."
He slammed the door, and the sound of the bolt sliding home was final.
Ivy stood in the center of the room, her hands shaking. She moved to the window, pulling back the thick curtain. There was no view—only a thick, unnatural fog pressing against the glass, obscuring the world outside.
Then, she heard it. A low, rhythmic scratching at the bedroom door. Not a human hand. Not a knock. It sounded like claws, dragging slowly, methodically across the wood, moving from the bottom of the door all the way up to the handle.
The handle began to turn.