Birddddy

auburn hair swings over her shoulder, the curled ends nearly reaching where her hip bones jut out through the thin black silk of her nightgown. Turning my face this way and that, I watch

rying to make out if there’s anything beyond the rows and rows of snow-capped pine trees, stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’s a dreary wintry evening

ding a way out of here. Later. You can fall apart again later. When Corvin comes for me, I feel him before I see him, even though he doesn’t make a sound. He might as well have turned off the lights. His very presence darkens the space—plummeting my world into a dismal black I’m not sure I have any chance of climbing my way free from. Every inch of my skin has been scrubbed, waxed, and buffed, and then I was all dolled up and thrown into this nightgown that leaves very little to the imagination.

ong, or benefited me much. All it did was just give more time to stew in my thoughts and panic. Corvin doesn’t immediately say anything when we’re face to face. He’s changed clothes. Where before he had on a white t-shirt, streaked with dirt, and loose-fitting jeans, he now wears sleek dress pants and a form-fitting button-up. All black. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his lightly haired forearms, and the prominent veins branching down to his strong, lightly tanned fingers. On his right wrist, he wears an expensivelooking

gainst my thighs. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Hm.” “What?” “Nothing, just…” He shakes his head and looks away. “Never mind. We need to go. It’s nearly time for dinner.” And just as he says that, a deep, resounding vibration shakes the floor, rattling the glass behind me. Corvin’s unfazed by the sound, and I vaguely remember the last time I heard it. “Are those church bells?” I find myself asking. His droll sideways look says, Obviously. I huff and cross my arms, win

on the soles of my feet. The music grows slightly louder as Corvin leads me around a corner, down a short hallway, and into an equally extravagant dining room. But not loud enough to drown out the sounds of tinkling chatter and laughter that greet us. My pulse speeds up, anger and something else I can’t pinpoint boiling my blood. All that time I was wasting away below ground, with nothing more than folded up paper and dripping water to keep me company, they were up here,eating and laughing and going about their lives like mine hadn’t been stolen. Like I meant nothing to them. It shouldn’t… hurt, but it does. It does. Does my existence mean that little to them? Do they really have no remorse or shame? It all comes to a halt, though, when we enter the room. The laughter, the chatter, my racing thoughts—all the sounds cut off except for the familiar music and my thundering heart. Corvin comes to a sudden stop just inside the arched doorway, tension rocketing up his spine. He hardly seems to notice when I collide face-first with his shoulder. Grimacing, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, and take a muchneeded step back. Flicking my gaze past him, I press up onto my toes, curious to see what caught him off guard. From just over his shoulder, I watch as several heads pivot toward us from their seats—two of which being the twins, and across from them, an older man I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before. He’s older than Corvin by at least ten years, I’d say, but not quite as old as the man facing us from the head of the long table. The one who currently takes up all my attention, and has every survival instinct in me screaming out in alarm. Him. Vague memories surge across my mind as those sharp, misleadingly joyful blue eyes find mine, brightening with an almost childlike excitement. “There she is,” he says in that soft, melodic voice I remember as clearly as if it were just yesterday that I first heard it.My heart thumps heavily in my chest as I try not to cower even further behind Corvin. It’s a ridiculous instinct. As if the one who chained me and starved me is somehow different than these other men. As if he’s somehow better, or safer. I have to remind myself that while the others are in no way innocent, they haven’t actually done anything yet—at least, not of their own volition— unlike Corvin who’s taken it upon himself to man-handle me, strip me naked, starve me, and threaten and mock me. Hell, he even violated me the night I got myself into this mess, even if it was at the behest of this strange white-haired man. It could be worse. I silently wince at the thought, hating that that’s where my standards have fallen. The older

’t think it’s on purpose this time. “Well, it’s no matter,” the older man says softly. His eyes are calculating, despite the mirth still teasing his lips. He waves his hand. “Come, come, my dear. Have a seat. You must be famished. I do hope you like chicken. Mercy makes a piccata that is just simply mouth-watering.” He kisses the leathercovered tips of his fingers. Before I can even process his words, Corvin’s already heading toward the open seat next to Lycus, giving me no choice but to stumble along after him. He’s just abo

ye, wondering what the white-haired man is thinking. He must notice the tension permeating the room, but he looks relaxed. Pleased, even, as he takes us all in. His gaze returns to mine, and he dips his head. “Pardon my manners, my dear. I just realized you probably have no idea who I am.” Pressing a gloved hand to his chest, he says, “I am the Fowler.” There’s the faintest Russian accent, one not unlike his son’s when he speaks, but it’s far less noticeable. It also doesn’t escape my notice that hedidn’t give me his name, just his title. His gaze narrows slightly, sharpening. “Do you know what that means?” I swallow tightly, and give a small shake of my head. “I’m a collector, you see. Some would argue that I’m a hunter, simply by definition, but hunting implies killing, and…” He sighs, shaking his head. “Well, I prefer not to kill my pets.” I stare at him. On my left side, Lycus takes a long sip of wine. I can feel his gaze on my face, but I force myself to ignore it. “You… collect people?” I find myself saying

ly thing holding me back from doing something stupid is the metal collar on my neck, and the pang in my stomach as I remember how I ended up here in the first place. Nausea creeps up my throat as images of the night I was taken flash across my mind. Snippets of conversation I somehow managed to pick up on and retain as I was groped and threatened. It feels like a lifetime ago. The memories are blurry, but my body remembers. It’s a feeling I can’t shake. One that brings about other feelings and thoughts and memories thataren’t as fuzzy. The kinds of which that will send me spiraling if I let them, down to a place I might not be able to crawl out of. So I quickly shut it down. Now is not the time to break. Now is not the time to grieve what I lost. Not when the Fowler’s watching me, waiting with bated breath to see what I’ll do and say next, sniffing out any weakness. Or maybe he’s just waiting for a reason to kill me and be done with it. “Corvin, perhaps you can give her a tour