I held the knife with both hands, driving it between his ribs. The blade met resistance then slid in, scraping against bone. At last. After everything he had done to me, I finally had my revenge.

  No more mouldy mattress beneath my bare skin. No more sickly-sweet scent of Golden-Hour poison. No more ropes cutting into my wrists. Only my body straddling his, my hands on the blade, and the rush of power.

  Marcelo gasped beneath me. His eyes widened as he realized what was happening. I twisted the knife deeper, feeling it scrape against bone. I wanted him to hurt. To feel helpless, to have someone else control whether he lived or died.

  His mouth opened, forming words I couldn't hear over the roaring in my ears. The sound of tearing fabric had pulled me back to my body. That sound had become too familiar during my time in the cellar.

  But this time I had seen his blade on the table beside me. This time, my hands weren't bound. This time, I had been faster.

  I sat atop his warm body as my vision cleared. I looked down, eager to watch the light fade from his eyes. Light brown hair. Clean-shaven face. Wide eyes filled not with cruelty but with surprise.

  Selwyn.

  My fingers released the blade. My lungs emptied in a single gasp.

  "Selwyn?"

  My hand touched his cheek, shaking. Warm skin beneath my fingers confirmed this nightmare was real. My eyes darted to where I had stabbed him. My aim had been perfect—for Marcelo's height. The blade that would have pierced Marcelo's heart had buried itself in Selwyn's shoulder.

  "Sweetie..."

  His voice pulled my gaze back to his face. A slight smile played on his lips, though pain tightened the corners of his eyes. "How are... you feeling?"

  A sound caught in my throat—half laugh, half sob. Tears ran down my face. I climbed off him and knelt beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.

  "I thought you were him," I whispered. "I thought you were Marcelo."

  Selwyn's eyes softened. "I gathered that much."

  I placed my palm on his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath my hand. The knife protruded at an angle, the blade embedded deep but missing vital areas. The wound wasn't bleeding heavily, the blade itself stemmed the flow.

  I pressed my lips against his, the taste of him pulling me further into reality. "I'm so sorry, Selwyn."

  He smiled. "Worth it." He tried to reach for my face, but the movement sent pain across his features. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  I ran to the door, throwing it open and shouting down the hall in Naerithi. The language flowed from my lips, calls for help, for a healer.

  My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I waited. I strained to hear any response. The silence pressed against me, broken only by Selwyn's shallow breathing.

  I glanced back at him. He lay still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily. Blood had started to seep around the blade, staining his shirt in an expanding circle.

  "Selwyn?" I called, afraid to leave his side. "Stay with me."

  His eyes fluttered open. "Not going anywhere, sweetie."

  Finally, footsteps thundered up the stairs, each one vibrating through the floor. Ross appeared at the top, his tall frame filling the doorway, followed by Lilach. Their expressions shifted from alarm to confusion—no attackers, no immediate danger, just me in torn clothing by the door.

  Ross took in the sight of me holding the remnants of my torn top against my body. His nostrils flared and his gaze hardened. "I'll bloody kill him."

  He pushed past me into the room and stopped at the sight of Selwyn on the floor, the knife protruding from his shoulder.

  "Oh," he said, voice dropping. "You already have. Saved me the trouble then."

  I smacked his arm. "This isn't funny, Ross."

  Selwyn lifted his hand in a weak wave. "Hello there."

  I looked between them—one bleeding on my floor, the other making jokes—and felt something crack inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks as my shoulders shook.

  Lilach slid her cape from her shoulders and draped it around me. Her hands squeezed my shoulders before she moved to Selwyn.

  "Can you help him? Please?" My voice broke.

  Lilach knelt beside him, examining the wound without touching it, then checking his pulse.

  "The blade needs to come out," she said. "But not here. We need somewhere cleaner, with better light."

  I pressed my hands against my mouth, trying to stop the sobs.

  "Jacobi is going to kill me," I whispered.

  Selwyn tried to sit up despite Lilach's warning shake.

  "My fault. I startled her." He met my eyes, smiling through his pain. "Sorry, sweetie."

  Ross's eyebrow arched at the endearment, a quick grin flashing across his face.

  "Buck up, young man," Lilach said as she helped Selwyn sit. "The blade missed anything important." She glanced at the rumpled bedding and my torn shirt. "You'll be back on your feet, or back on your back, in no time."

  I glared at her, and she straightened her expression, though amusement still danced in her eyes. Ross helped Selwyn stand, supporting his weight as he swayed.

  "Let's get you to the guest room," Ross said. "Better light there, clean sheets."

  Lilach moved to Selwyn's other side, careful to avoid the knife. "I'll need hot water, clean cloths, and whatever healing supplies you have."

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  They guided Selwyn toward the door. He glanced back at me, face pale but eyes clear. "Don't worry, sweetie. I've had worse from bar fights."

  "Come on," Lilach called over her shoulder. "You've done enough damage for one morning."

  Ross laughed, and even Selwyn managed a weak chuckle. I stayed frozen, unable to find humor in any of this. They disappeared down the hall with Selwyn between them.

  I stared at the small bloodstain where Selwyn had lain, replaying the attack in my mind. The moment of transition from believing I was killing Marcelo to realizing I had stabbed Selwyn flashed before my eyes. Naerithi curse words escaped me before I could stop myself.

  "Now, I don't know what that means, but I can guess it isn't very nice."

  Jacobi's voice behind me made me spin around, nearly losing my balance. Lilach appeared at his shoulder, her expression softer than usual.

  "Your brother will be fine," she said to Jacobi, though her eyes were on me. "The knife missed anything vital. He's already being difficult about staying in bed." Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Stubborn, like someone else I know."

  Relief flooded through me, momentarily washing away the guilt. Jacobi nodded once, his jaw tight. I noticed his fist clenched at his side as he stood in the doorway. His eyes moved between me and the bloodstain, then to my torn clothing. I folded my arms, pulling Lilach's cape tighter around me.

  Lilach squeezed Jacobi's arm before slipping away, back toward the room where they were tending to Selwyn.

  "I need to..." I trailed off, not even sure what I intended to say. My gaze darted to the bloodstained floor, then to the doorway. The urge to flee tightened my muscles, though I had nowhere to go. I took a step toward the hallway, but Jacobi gently caught my wrist, redirecting me with a touch.

  "This way."

  He guided me down the hallway toward his study, his hand against the small of my back. The weight of what I'd done pressed down with each step. The floor creaked beneath my bare feet, each sound a reminder that I was moving further from Selwyn, from my crime. I had stabbed him. I had attacked the brother of the man who owned me. For a Naerithi, such an action could mean death.

  Jacobi's silence heightened my anxiety. Was he angry? Disappointed? I couldn't tell which part of what I'd done upset him most.

  The corridor stretched forever, each step taking us deeper into the quiet part of the house.

  We reached his study, and he pushed the door open. The hinges creaked, unnaturally loud in our silence. I stepped inside, hugging myself as the door closed behind me with a soft click. The room smelled of leather-bound books, ink, and Jacobi's scent.

  Journals and ledgers stacked neatly on his desk, quills arranged in order. The familiarity should have comforted me, but I felt like an intruder—something wild and dangerous among such orderly possessions.

  "Sit," he said quietly, pointing not to the chairs but to a small door in the far wall.

  I walked toward it, my heartbeat quickening. I hesitated before turning the brass handle. The door opened to a small bedroom. A four-poster bed dominated the space, with a single armchair beside it. Midday light streamed through half-drawn curtains. The bed was neatly made, the sheets crisp and clearly unused.

  "In here?" I asked.

  "For privacy," Jacobi replied, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "We won't be disturbed."

  The words chilled me despite the room's warmth. I entered, looking at the sparse furnishings. Despite its simplicity, the room had a certain comfort—clean, ordered, everything in place. Like Jacobi himself.

  I stood awkwardly by the bed, unsure what to do. Jacobi followed and closed the door. He leaned against it, studying me with eyes that always saw through my defenses.

  "I stabbed Selwyn," I blurted out. The words hung between us, stark and undeniable. "I was... not myself. When I came back, I thought he was Marcelo. I grabbed the knife and I..." Words stuck in my throat. "I'm so sorry."

  Jacobi pushed off from the door and approached me slowly, his movements deliberate, as one might approach a wounded animal. "Is he badly hurt?"

  I shook my head, a strand of white hair falling across my face. "The shoulder. Not... not his heart. I was aiming for..." I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. "If he had been taller, it would have been his heart."

  Jacobi's expression softened minutely, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxing. "Then we should be grateful that my brother is shorter than that monster." He reached out and gently brushed the strand of hair from my face, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. "Selwyn is stronger than he looks. He'll recover."

  He reached out and gently tugged Lilach's cape from my shoulders, revealing my torn shirt beneath. His eyes lingered on the fabric for a moment, then drifted to the top of the brand over my shoulder. Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes before he met my gaze again.

  "Wait here," he said, turning to leave the room.

  Alone, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands twisting in my lap, fingers lacing and unlacing in a nervous rhythm. The silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the distant sound of voices somewhere in the house. Selwyn's voice? Lilach's? I couldn't tell.

  Whatever punishment Jacobi deemed fit for what I had done to his brother, I knew it wouldn't be cruel. Not like Marcelo.

  Wouldn't it? a small voice whispered in my mind. You stabbed his brother. You attacked his blood. How can you be sure he won't turn on you now?

  When Jacobi returned, he carried a brush in one hand. His movements were precise, measured, as he closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. The small click echoed in the quiet room. My heart stuttered in my chest, but I forced myself to remain still.

  Jacobi sat on the edge of the bed beside me and regarded me with those piercing eyes that always saw too much.

  "I can see your thoughts taking you to dark places."

  I didn't deny it. There was no point in pretending with Jacobi.

  "I want you to listen to my voice," he continued, each word deliberate and controlled. "I want you to do exactly as I ask, but you must tell me if you become uncomfortable at any time. Do you understand?"

  I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

  "Answer me," he commanded, gentle but unyielding.

  "Yes," I whispered. "I understand."

  "Kneel on the floor." He gestured to the space between his legs. "Here."

  My pulse quickened. My mind flashed images of what might follow. But this was Jacobi, not Marcelo. The difference between their intentions was as vast as the distance between stars.

  I slowly lowered myself to my knees between his spread legs, facing him. The wood floor was hard beneath my knees, the pressure grounding me in the present moment.

  Jacobi cupped my cheek with one warm hand. His touch was gentle, at odds with the command in his voice. "Turn around. Back to me."

  I hesitated, confusion flickering across my face.

  "Trust me," he murmured, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.

  I turned, positioning myself with my back to him, still kneeling between his legs. Behind me, I felt him shift on the bed, spreading his knees wider to accommodate me. I tensed, uncertain what would follow.

  The first stroke of the brush through my tangled hair startled me. I nearly jumped, but Jacobi's hand settled on my shoulder, steadying me.

  "Breathe," he instructed, his voice close to my ear. "Focus on the sensation. Nothing else exists right now. Not what happened with Selwyn. Not Marcelo. Just this moment."

  The brush moved through my hair again, catching on a knot. Jacobi worked it free with patient hands, never pulling hard enough to hurt.

  "When my mother was alive," he said, his voice a low rumble behind me, "she would brush my hair when I was upset. Said it was impossible to think straight with tangled hair."

  The steady rhythm of the brush moving through my hair sent shivers down my spine. Each stroke pulled me further from the chaos of my thoughts, anchoring me in the physical sensation.

  "You need structure right now," Jacobi continued, working methodically through the tangles. "You need someone to tell you what to do, where to be, how to move forward."

  I didn't reply, but he was right. In the aftermath of my captivity, especially now, after stabbing Selwyn, my mind felt like scattered fragments.

  "I can give you that," he said, as if reading my thoughts. His fingers combed through a section of my hair before the brush followed. "Rules. Boundaries. Direction."

  My eyes drifted closed as understanding dawned. This wasn't punishment—it was sanctuary. The rigid control Jacobi maintained over himself, over his world, could extend to me. A shelter from the storm of my own mind.

  "Yes," I whispered, the word escaping before I could consider it.