The woods behind Marcelo’s estate were denser than I expected, overgrown and tangled, like even the land was trying to keep people out. Or trap them in. Branches clawed at my arms as I passed, and I let them. A few shallow scrapes were nothing. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, the sound too loud in the quiet. I adjusted instinctively, shifting my weight to the balls of my feet.

  I crouched low near the edge of the tree line, my gaze locked on the sprawl of Levanth Manor. The early afternoon sun lit up the windows in gold, casting a warm glow across the marble that made the house look serene. Welcoming, even. Like Marcelo himself. Noble, controlled, perfect on the surface. A facade so polished you couldn’t always see the danger behind it.

  Normally, I’d wait for nightfall. Count the patrols. Find the shadows. Mark the exits. That’s how we were trained.

  But Ellah’s blood had soaked my bed. Not a drop. Not a smear. A splatter.

  If she was alive, she might not have until nightfall.

  I moved.

  The outer wall was tall, clean and gleaming, but the old stone still had cracks. I scaled it fast, my claws catching the edges like anchors.

  At the top, I paused. Just long enough to scan the grounds. Garden paths curled below, perfectly manicured, yet empty of life. Staged. No eyes on me.

  Marcelo’s home looked similar in age and layout to the Velez Estate. The houses were built from the same bones: servant’s quarters low and far, owners high and central. Staircases in opposite wings. Guest halls on the southern curve. Which meant Marcelo’s personal rooms would be…

  There. Upper north wing. The curtains there were drawn, unlike the rest. Something about it prickled at the edge of my instinct.

  I dopped from the wall into the hedge and kept low, darting across the open ground. No alarm, no movement.

  The climb up the manor facade was slower, deliberate. The stone grooves and narrow ledges were enough to hold me. I reached the balcony without a sound, pausing again as I waited, crouched low. A faint shift of the wind stirred the curtains through the open windows, and I slid inside.

  The space was opulent to the point of ridiculousness. Blood-red silk sheets stretched over the largest bed I’d ever seen. Pillows fluffed and stacked, just so.

  Across from the bed—

  Of course. A massive oil painting of Marcelo, shirtless and reclined on a throne, one hand resting on the head of a kneeling demon.

  This was just perfectly staged decadence.

  Men and their bedrooms, always a performance.

  If Jacobi ever saw this, he’d renovate the estate out of spite.

  Where I expected spices and musk, the air inside the bedroom was sterile and sharp, reeking of vinegar and soap. Not just cleaned. Scrubbed. Someone had tried hard to erase something that happened here.

  I searched the room quickly, carefully not to touch too much. I didn’t trust what might rub off. I stayed clear of the painting. I could feel its gaze on me even with my back turned. If it was meant to unsettle, it did the job.

  There was nothing here. Nothing useful. If this house had a heart, it wasn’t in the bedroom.

  Jacobi’s was his office. Marcelo’s might be, too.

  I sighed. I didn’t want the comparison, but I couldn’t ignore it.

  I moved through the outer chambers in silence, bare feet whispering across the polished stone. The hall split ahead, and I slipped to the left, hugging the curve of the wall. A breath later, I heard footsteps.

  I froze.

  A voice murmured low, answering someone unseen, the echo bouncing off the walls. I scanned for cover and found none. The walls were bare, the space too open. My eyes lifted.

  A support beam. Just above the curve of the nearest arch. There was a pocket of space between them. It was narrow, shadowed, and just enough.

  I leapt.

  My claws scraped into the wall—plaster over stone—anchoring me just beneath the molding. I climbed fast, wedging my feet against the curve of the arch and hauling myself up into the narrow space between it and the beam above.

  My body flattened into the gap. My thumbs dragged against the stone, skin and scar where claws should have been. The pain flared, sharp and immediate. Holding the silence took more effort than the climb.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my spine as I held position, my muscles locked.

  Below me, the guard paused.

  I could see the tilt of his head through the narrow gap between my arm and the beam. He looked up, but not far enough, then he moved on.

  I waited three long breaths before I exhaled. Only once the hall had gone silent again did I drop lightly back to the floor, landing in a crouch.

  I kept low as I moved deeper into the manor. As I neared the upper level, carpet dulled the sound of my steps even more. My claws flexed unconsciously as I stepped into a familiar hallway.

  It was the same curve of architecture, the same long stretch of empty wall, ending in a heavy wooden door.

  As I neared the door, I caught the sound of breathing from inside, low, even, and perfectly controlled.

  Not Ellah. Hers would be quick and shallow. Trying not to cry.

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  And not Marcelo. Nothing about him was controlled, including his breathing.

  This was restrained, perfect from training.

  I slipped inside. The office was familiar. Not identical to Jacobi, but the structure was the same. A private study, with a smaller bedroom tucked behind it.

  The desk was in the same place, the walls arranged the same way. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. The familiarity turned my stomach.

  This wasn’t just imitation. It looked like obsession.

  The moment I opened the bedroom door, I knew I’d found what he meant me to see.

  She was kneeling.

  A young demon girl, barely older than Ellah. Her posture was textbook, back straight, knees wide, hands on thighs.

  “He said you’d come,” she whispered. Her voice was small, but even.

  Her skin shimmered faintly under layered bruises. Her arms and thighs were marked with welts, some fresh, some faded.

  I stepped in slowly. She didn’t move. Up close, the bruises were worse, but it was the scar on the shoulder that stopped me cold.

  Not just a scar, a brand.

  It was Marcelo’s crest, seared into her flesh. The edges were raw and ridged from repeated burnings.

  My breath tightened. I was looking at something that shouldn’t exist.

  She’d been marked. Over and over.

  Marcelo’s words from the party echoed in my mind. All he’ll see are the scars.

  My throat locked, my vision blurring with tears for half a breath.

  I moved, not towards her, but around. I stepped into her line of sight, blocking the mark. Because it was all I could look at.

  She looked up. Her eyes were dull, and she nodded toward the office. “He left two hours ago. Said to wait here and tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  The girl swallowed hard. Her voice shook on the next words. “He won’t hurt her. It’s not about her. He wants you.”

  Of course he did.

  “He’s taking her to the mainland. Into the demon quarter. A place called Dario’s.”

  The name was a blade against my memory. Dario’s. I knew it well. Dark floors, low lights, no windows, the prefect place for secrets to hide.

  Marcelo thought I’d rather walk willingly into a trap than leave Ellah in his hands.

  And I hated that he was right.

  I exhaled slowly and crouched in front of the girl. She didn’t back away, maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she’d learned already it didn’t matter.

  I gestured to her shoulder, narrowing my eyes. “That’s forbidden. Permanent marks violate contract law.”

  She gave the faintest nod. “He does it anyway.”

  “How many times?”

  “Four, maybe five. It heals. My skin. It heals too fast for him. So he does it again. Says if it won’t stay, I didn’t learn.”

  I pressed my hands to my thighs, claws twitching, every nerve screaming to tear something open.

  Demons bound to humans were supposed to serve ten-year contracts. Temporary slavery, sanctioned by law, framed as a period of adjustment. Time to learn human rules, customs, boundaries. But not permanent, and never like this.

  Marcelo helped write those laws. He sat with Jacobi on the council that signed them. That brand wasn’t ignorance. It was a message.

  She reached beside her and handed me an envelope.

  Inside was a single ferry ticket. One way.

  I turned it over in my hand. “He couldn’t lash out for the return tickets?”

  The girl hesitated. “He said—”

  “Let me guess. He wants me to beg for them?”

  “Something like that.”

  I tapped the ticket against my palm. Of course he wanted to turn a rescue into a demonstration of obedience. This was far too organised to be Marcelo running on impulse.

  “What if Jacobi had come here instead of me? Or even Selwyn?”

  “He gave me this. In case it wasn’t you.”

  She produced a small curved blade from under her skirt.

  I stared at the blade. Marcelo had armed her, but not to protect herself. To threaten them.

  “And if all of us came?”

  She wouldn’t have stood a chance, and he knew that.

  She looked down. “I was supposed to do my best. Until I was… stopped.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and steady, but her expression didn’t change. There was no fear, or defiance. Just resignation.

  I reached for the blade. She didn’t flinch or fight, just let go.

  “Why would you do it?”

  Her eyes dropped to her empty hands.

  “Freedom,” she whispered.

  I inhaled sharply, understanding flooding through me in a rush.

  The freedom to end it. To escape from Marcelo the only way she could.

  I tucked the knife away out of sight.

  “What’s your name?”

  She looked up, surprise flickering on her face for the first time.

  “Nalah.”

  I nodded once. “Can you walk, Nalah?”

  There was a pause, and then a slow nod, “Yes.”

  I slipped a hand under the hem of Selwyn’s shirt and tore a strip from the underlayer I wore beneath it. Sheer purple and silver-threaded, unmistakable.

  I held it out. “This is Velez silk. From my house.” My free hand brushed my collar as I spoke.

  Her hand hovered over the piece of fabric.

  “Take it. Go to my estate. Ask for Selwyn or Jacobi—Councilman Velez. They’ll protect you.”

  Her fingers closed around it slowly, like she didn’t believe it was real.

  “Why would they?”

  My heart kicked against my ribs.

  Because Selwyn knows how to hold a person together without even touching them.

  Because Jacobi still believes there are lines we don’t cross.

  “Because I told them to.”

  I left the way I came, cutting a path through the nearly empty manor and out through the kitchens. No one stopped me.

  I paused at the treeline, just for a breath.

  My body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but my training was screaming in protest.

  You should have waited. You should have planned.

  Tesh’ilia don’t storm in blind. They don’t scale unfamiliar walls without escape routes. They don’t leave witnesses alive.

  I had broken so many of the rules I once bled to learn.

  But I wasn’t that anymore. I wasn’t only Tesh’ilia. And I couldn’t be just Joy.

  I had to be both.

  I thought about Jacobi. The look on his face in my room, standing there with the blood on his hands. The rage that cracked something inside him. He had been afraid, but not of Marcelo. Of losing me.

  And Selwyn, the way he moved between us, standing firm when everything was unraveling in me.

  They were my tether, my strange, broken tether to this place.

  I was walking away from it, and I might not come back.

  But Ellah was blood. Not by birth, but by bond. She was mine to protect.

  My fingers brushed again over the gems at my throat, Jacobi’s collar, still cool to the touch.

  Marcelo wanted this.

  He just didn’t understand what he was asking for.

  My claws flexed as I moved deeper into the trees.

  He wanted a pet.

  He was getting the blade.