Flanagan nods. “The High Council’s strongest witch. If he can’t tell us whether your memory has been altered, nobody can. As soon as he heard about you, he wanted to meet you. You will answer every one of his questions truthfully.”

“And when he discovers that I’m not a Blood Slave?” I ask defiantly.

Flanagan pauses a long time before answering. “I hope that is true. You are certainly convincing. But if you are not a willing Blood Servant or an unwilling slave, then you are something else, and we will need to know what that is.”

Chapter 9

9

While his words choke my mind, Flanagan tugs on his brown suede gloves and walks toward the cage door. As soon as the keys jangle, panic hits my chest like a punch from a heavyweight. I can’t stay in this cage alone. It’ll kill me.

“Wait.” I push off the bed and stand. “You can’t just leave me in here.”

He turns to face me. “This cage is a necessary precaution.”

“It’s not right.” I shuffle toward him, the heavy chain between my ankles pulling tight on every step. “I don’t deserve a cage. I haven’t done anything.” Panic raises my voice to a shout.

Flanagan’s tone softens. “Michael, I know you fear enclosure. I’ve been helping you with your claustrophobia since your first day.”

His sympathetic look pisses me off. I lean in and jut my chin up. “I don’t fear the damn cage, all right? I’m just not a pissing dog.”

He steps close enough for our chests to almost touch and looks down at me. I stand my ground. I’ll not be intimidated—even by a man who can rip my head off. But his eyes stay gentle as they roam my glare.

“This is not a punishment. The precautions are for your safety as well as ours. Have something to eat and rest. I’ll meet you in Quinton’s office.”

The care in his tone unsettles me more than his anger. It has a familiar intimacy I don’t understand. I back away with a scowl. “I need the john. Or do prisoners not get their basic needs met here?”

Flanagan lets out a slow breath, then points to the end of the bed.

I follow the line of his finger to a bucket on the floor. “You’re kidding me. Where’s the toilet?”

“You had a toilet. You used it as a weapon. Now you have a bucket.”

I check his face for what must be a joke, but his expression lacks humor. “I used the toilet as a weapon?”

“You yanked it from the floor and threw it at me.”

“I did?” I try not to sound so pleased with that image.

Flanagan gives me a dry look, arching an eyebrow. He turns to leave the cage.