“Why am I tied in the first place? I’m not Hannibal fucking Lecter, Flanagan. What do you think I’m going to do behind metal bars and thick stone walls?”

“We strapped you down for your own safety, Michael. This is your third lockup in three nights. The others are damaged, strewn with broken furniture because of your rages.”

Rages? “I’ve been here three nights?”

“Yes, it’s Wednesday morning.” He unbuckles the leg straps.

I rattle the chains on my wrist and ankles. “What about these?”

He unfastens both sets of manacles from the bed frame but leaves them on my wrists with the length of thick chain strung between. Same with my ankles.

“You’re not serious?” I fling out my arms, but the links only allow me to open as far as my hips.

“It’s protocol. Sit up on the side of the bed.”

I rise and swing my legs over, metal clattering against metal, and perch my backside on the edge of the bed. I take a few deeper breaths, feeling less claustrophobic. Until I roll my shoulders and cold metal bites the skin of my jaw. The chains jangle as I grab at the collar.

“What’s this about?”

The metal band feels an inch wide with a smooth texture and an eyelet at the back for a chain. A repeated pattern etched into its surface feels rough beneath my probing fingers. I exhale long and slow to keep my heartbeat steady. A collar is even worse than straps.

Flanagan hooks the keyring onto his belt, removes his other glove, and stands over me, close enough for his knees to touch mine. He folds his arms, his biceps bunching up like tree trunks.

“The collar suppresses your Flame. Prevents you from burning my soldiers.”

I look up at him, exasperated. “I don’t even know how to use the Flame. So why would I need a fancy collar?”

“I have four soldiers in the infirmary who prove otherwise.”

My brow scrunches. “Because of me?”

“Yes, Michael. Because of you.” His eyes narrow. “How long have you been a Blood Servant for the Anlu’kyr?”

“What?” Astounded by the question, I laugh. I expect to see a twinkle in his eye, but his somber expression would suit a funeral. “Is that a serious question?”

He searches my gaze a long time before he speaks, his brow a tight crease. “Your confusion is convincing. It might be you’ve suffered memory alteration, but we saw you kneel to the prince, and we know for sure you’ve been drinking Anlu’kyr blood for decades. So there is little point in continuing this charade.”

I stare at him, flabbergasted. Decades? “What charade? Of course I’m not a Blood Servant. I didn’t know vampires were a thing until you told me.” I shake my head, glancing around at the bars, the walls, the cockroach skittering over a tile in the corner. I can’t believe this. It’s like I’m caught in some elaborate prank.

“I didn’t want to go anywhere near the prince. He did some vampire magic shit on me. Surely you get that?” I ignore the way my heart squeezes upon mention of Alexei.