Even after midnight, the city pulsed with faint enchantments and whispering shadows. Magic flickered like dying stars above rooftops. Ghost-lanterns drifted in alleyways. Somewhere far off, someone laughed too loudly—or screamed too softly.
Ophelia sat curled on the floor near the hearth of the abandoned inn, wrapped in the cloak Lysander had given her. He hadn't spoken since he caught her at the door hours ago. Just yanked her back inside and chained her ankle to the rusted iron ring bolted into the wall.
She didn't scream. Didn't fight. Not anymore.
But her mind burned.
She had made it to the edge of the city. Almost. The stars had been her compass, her bare feet bleeding from the cobblestones, her heart hammering like a drum. She'd climbed rooftops, slipped through gates. She'd run like her soul depended on it.
Then he caught her.
Lysander Grey didn't shout. He didn't threaten.
He just appeared out of the shadows, as if he'd always been there. One arm around her throat, the other catching her wrist. She still remembered the cold press of his breath.
Now, her silence was a shield. And her gaze was steady, even as he sat across the room, sharpening a blade by candlelight.
He hadn't chained her hands. Just her ankle. As if daring her to try again.
"I should've left you in the cart," he said suddenly, his voice low and sharp.
Ophelia looked up but said nothing.
"I don't like disobedient things," he continued, eyes flicking toward her. "You run again, and I won't bring you back."
"I didn't ask you to," she replied quietly.
A moment of silence passed between them. Then Lysander laughed—a dry, humorless sound.
"You've got fire," he said, setting the blade down. "Too bad it'll get you killed."
Ophelia hugged her knees tighter. "Maybe that's the point."
Lysander's gaze narrowed. For a second, something almost like surprise crossed his face. But it vanished too fast.
He stood and walked to her. She is tensed, but didn't move.
He crouched to her level, eyes locking with hers.
"We're leaving tomorrow."
She lay there after he left, staring at the ceiling, imagining what was to come. All her dreams, her hopes—gone. She would end up a slave. Not even a servant. At least a servant had rights. Could rest. Could marry.
A slave had no rights. No choices. No will of her own.
She sighed.
The next morning, the cart was waiting. It looked expensive—polished mahogany wood with golden trim and velvet drapes. Three coachmen stood by, a symbol of wealth and power. Whoever Lysander truly was, he was clearly of the elite.
One of the coachmen carried her inside. Ophelia sat stiffly, staring at the plush interior, wondering what fate had in store for her.
Lysander sat opposite her, staring out the window.
She took a moment to study the man who had bought her. Fifty gold pieces—no, forty-five. Still a fortune. Was she even worth so much?
No wonder he hadn't let her go.
The sunlight spilled over his face. His jawline was sharp, clean. His skin pale with just the faintest olive hue. Long black hair framed his face like ink, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—reflected more secrets than light. He was, without question, very handsome.
But beauty meant nothing when wrapped around cruelty.
She hissed softly, trying to shake the thought from her head.
Such a fine man, with such a wicked, heartless soul.
The sound of another approaching cart made the coachman slow and stop, snapping her out of her thoughts.
Lysander stepped out calmly, greeted by a man of average height and a potbelly, dressed in dark traveling clothes.
"Good day, my lord," the man said, bowing after realizing that he was not just an ordinary man. "Forgive the intrusion. I bring a request on behalf of my master."
Lysander raised a brow. "Speak."
"My master is interested in the slave you recently acquired. He's willing to pay any amount to claim her."
Lysander's eyes narrowed, interest piqued.
"Is that so?" he said slowly. Then his tone darkened. "Tell your master I don't share. And I don't give away what's mine."
He turned to climb back into the cart—but the man didn't move. A signal flicked through his fingers.
Shadows surged from the surrounding trees. Armed men. Five. No—six. Cloaked in black, moving fast.
Ophelia gasped.
Lysander leapt from the cart again, blades already drawn. The air shimmered as he shifted—just slightly—his eyes glowing silver.
The first attacker lunged.
Lysander twisted, caught the blade mid-air, and slammed a fist into the man's chest. Another came from behind. He ducked, slashed clean across the thigh, and kicked him aside.
Ophelia watched in frozen awe.
He fought like a beast. Fast. Efficient. Merciless.
One attacker made it to the cart. Reached for her.
But Lysander was already there, sword through the man's gut in a blink. The others faltered. Then scattered into the woods.
Breathing hard, Lysander wiped his blade on his cloak and looked at her.
She stared back, heart pounding.
"You're more trouble than you're worth," he muttered. "But now I really want to know why."
He climbed back inside, blood still drying on his sleeves.