Remember, beloved, do not tell the Lycan your true name, I hear in my mind. His precious council will only fear the name Sabel.

The Lycan? Is Flanagan the Lycan? It’s a struggle to understand. I don’t even have the strength to lift my head from where it’s flopped against Flanagan’s neck. I can only watch through a thickening dullness as the prince’s graceful strokes take him farther away. With every beat of those wings, my heart squeezes with longing. Why the hell did I say no to him? I must be deranged. Of course I should be with the vampire. I belong to him.

I turn my eyes to Flanagan, who’s watching me, brow furrowed. The friendly twinkle has gone, replaced with something colder.

“What?” I slur, my vision dimming fast now.

Flanagan takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Michael. This has to be.”

I don’t understand what he means. Sorry for what? That I can’t be with Alexei? I’m unable to think straight as my mind unravels. My thoughts slide away from me like melting wax.

Flanagan turns to Mason standing at his shoulder. “Sergeant, bring the irons from Nelson. And the chains.”

Wait. What?

I don’t get to ask. The world goes black.

8

Distant voices penetrate the dark hole I’m floating in, drawing me toward a dim light. I rise from the depths of a bottomless lake, and it’s not until the haze becomes a dazzle, pricking my eyeballs like tiny needles that I realize it’s sunlight.

An image of oil-black eyes and moonlight skin blazes into my mind, followed by a sharp silver gaze and those last words.

Sergeant, bring the collar. And the irons.

My eyes fly open. A row of thick, shiny bars fills the view above me. I’m lying on a high, single bed at the edge of a square cage that’s maybe four yards wide, contained inside a large room.

I’m in a cage?

I try to sit up. I can’t move. Iron cuffs my wrists and chains me to either side of the bed. Leather straps fasten me across my bare chest to the mattress like I’m a mental patient in some bizarre asylum. Electric panic sweeps through my body, stealing my breath.

But that’s not everything. A cold, rigid presence presses against the skin of my neck. A collar.

What. The. Fuck.

“Flanagan!” I yell the name at the top of my voice, but it comes out a dry screech.

“Oh, shit. He’s awake,” a male voice behind me says. “Go get the commander.”

“Yeah. Go get the commander!” I shout. The bastard has some explaining to do.

The room is bare, apart from the cage. An empty fireplace dominates one wall, and two floor-to-ceiling windows fill another, but the slate floor is clear of furniture, and the rough-hewn walls bare of decoration. Through the window, I catch a view of wide lawns bordered by tangled woods.

I struggle against the straps and chains. My rib must have healed because there’s no pain, but my efforts to escape are still useless. “What’s going on?”