Chapter 6
Lirael
The door at the front of the cabin opened, and a woman in a crisp white uniform stepped through. Mid-thirties, blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, expression professionally neutral—but I caught the flicker of disdain in her eyes when she looked at me, the slight curl of her lip that said trash more clearly than words ever could.
Oh, this is going to be fun, I thought with grim sarcasm.
"Miss," she said, and even that single word dripped with barely concealed contempt. "I'm Isabella, Mr. Blackwood's personal attendant. I've been instructed to see to your... needs."
The pause before "needs" spoke volumes. So did the way she looked at my prison uniform, at the collar around my throat, at the way I was huddled on the couch like a kicked dog.
Yeah, that's right, I wanted to snarl at her. Get a good look. Memorize it. Because one day I'm going to be the one looking down at you, and we'll see who's wearing the collar then.
But I kept my mouth shut and my expression blank, because that was the smart play. That was survival.
"The master has requested that you be cleaned and fed," Isabella continued, her tone suggesting that she thought both activities were a waste of resources. "There's a private bathroom through that door. I'll have fresh clothing brought for you. As for dietary requirements—" She paused, eyeing me like I might bite. "Do elves have any special needs? Allergies? Preferences we should be aware of?"
Oh, where do I even start? I thought hysterically. Let's see—I prefer not to be electrocuted, tortured, or treated like a fucking science experiment. I'm allergic to being called 'it' and 'specimen' and 'merchandise.' And my dietary preference is for food that hasn't been laced with sedatives or magical suppressants, thanks so much for asking.
I stared at her silently, keeping my face carefully empty, and watched her jaw tighten with frustration.
"I see," she said coldly. "Still playing mute. How... charming." She gestured sharply toward the bathroom door. "Go. Clean yourself up. You're tracking water all over the master's deck."
His deck. Not "the deck." His. Like everything on this yacht, like everything in his world, belonged to him and only him.
Like me, I thought, and had to swallow back the urge to scream.
I stood on shaking legs and made my way to the bathroom, hyperaware of Isabella's eyes boring into my back. The yacht swayed gently beneath my feet—a subtle reminder that we were moving, putting distance between me and the island, between me and any chance of escape. The moment the door closed behind me, I sagged against it, pressing my forehead to the cool wood and trying to breathe through the panic clawing at my throat.
You're alive, I reminded myself. You're out of the Foundation. You're—
You're in a different cage, the vicious voice in my head finished. A prettier cage, maybe. A more expensive cage. But still a cage.
I pushed away from the door and looked around. The bathroom was obscenely luxurious—all marble and gold fixtures and a shower that could have fit five people comfortably. There were thick towels warming on heated racks, expensive soaps that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, a mirror that took up half the wall. Through a small porthole window, I could see nothing but dark water and darker sky.
I avoided looking at my reflection as I stripped off the sodden prison uniform. I knew what I'd see—bruises from the auction house guards, the pale scar tissue from three years of "medical procedures," the too-sharp angles of collarbones and ribs from irregular feeding. I didn't need to see it to know I looked like exactly what I was: a prisoner. A victim. A thing that had been used and broken and used again.
Not anymore, I promised myself, stepping under the scalding spray of the shower. Not ever again.
The hot water felt like heaven against my skin, washing away the rainwater and the lingering chemical smell of the Foundation and the phantom sensation of too many hands grabbing, restraining, taking. I stood there until the water ran cold, scrubbing at my skin like I could wash away the last three years, the collar, the genetic lock, the memory of Sebastian's fingers on my face.
When I finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that was softer than anything I'd touched in years, there were clothes laid out on the counter. Not my prison uniform—that had been removed while I was showering, probably thrown away or burned. Instead, there was a simple black dress, underwear still in the package, soft leather flats that looked like they'd actually fit.
The dress was modest enough—long sleeves, hem that fell to mid-calf, high neckline that almost covered the collar. Almost. The gold metal still gleamed against my throat, visible and damning.
Property of Sebastian Blackwood, it might as well have said. Return to owner if found.
I dressed mechanically, my mind already three steps ahead, cataloging information, looking for weaknesses, planning my next move. The bathroom had a small porthole—too small to escape through, and probably locked anyway. The door had a simple handle, no lock from the inside. The ventilation grate was too high to reach without a chair, and even if I could get to it, where would I go? We were on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, miles from shore.
Patience, I counseled myself. Wait. Watch. Learn. He'll make a mistake eventually. They always do.
I opened the door to find Isabella waiting, her expression even more sour than before. She looked me up and down, and I saw the flash of something ugly in her eyes—jealousy, raw and vicious, mixed with resentment that made the air between us crackle with hostility.
"Better," she said shortly. "Come. The master has ordered food prepared for you in the main salon."
She led me through the yacht, and I took mental notes of every detail. Emergency exits. Security cameras. The location of the bridge. The number of crew I could see. The gentle roll of the deck beneath my feet, the muffled sound of engines, the salt-tinged air that seeped through the ventilation. All of it filed away for later use.
The main salon was even more luxurious than the bathroom—all leather and dark wood and the kind of understated elegance that screamed old money. There was a dining table set with actual china and silver, a couch that probably cost more than most cars, floor-to-ceiling windows that showed nothing but darkness and the occasional glimmer of moonlight on water.
And there, at the far end of the salon, was another door. Closed. Probably leading to Sebastian's private quarters.
The master's lair, I thought with dark humor. Where the beast sleeps.
Isabella gestured to the table. "Sit. Eat. And try not to make a mess."
There was food laid out—simple but high-quality. Roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, fresh bread that was still warm. My stomach growled at the sight of it, a mortifying reminder that the last thing I'd eaten had been a protein bar in my cell that morning.
This morning, I realized with a jolt. It's only been twelve hours since I woke up in my cell. Twelve hours since I thought today would be like every other day. Twelve hours since my entire life turned inside out.
I sat and picked up a fork, hyperaware of Isabella's eyes on me, judging my every move. The yacht swayed gently, and I heard the distant sound of waves against the hull. The food was delicious—of course it was, because apparently Sebastian Blackwood didn't do anything by halves—but it tasted like ashes in my mouth.
Eating from the master's table, I thought bitterly. Like a pet being rewarded for good behavior.
I was halfway through the meal when Isabella spoke again, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You know, the master has never brought anyone onto his private yacht before. Not like this." She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying me with naked malice. "He's had... companions, of course. Beautiful women. Sophisticated women. Human women who know how to behave in polite society."
Oh, here we go, I thought wearily. The jealous servant routine.
"But you?" Isabella's lip curled. "You're just a novelty. An exotic pet he picked up on a whim. He'll get bored of you within a week—probably less. And then you'll be just another animal in a cage, and I'll still be here, the way I've always been."
Keep telling yourself that, honey, I thought, taking another bite of chicken. Whatever helps you sleep at night.