Nick’s father sits at the desk across from me, his fingertips templed on its inlaid leather writing surface. Lightning flashes outside the window to my right, illuminating the angles of his cheekbones and deep-set eyes. For a moment, he looks like Nick.

“Where is Nick?” I move as if to stand but only get an inch off the chair I’m sitting in. I look down to see rope wrapped around my wrists, tying me to the armrests. Even my ankles are tied to the chair, somewhere underneath the layers of my dress. Dread chills me from the inside out. “Let me go!”

“My apologies about the restraints.” His Southern charm and its gentle tones of hospitality and care feel twisted now. Calculated. He inclines his head toward the rope around my arms. “I had a feeling you’d decline my invitation to chat.”

“Abduction is not an invitation,” I say through gritted teeth. “Where is Nick?”

He ignores me and stands up to circle around the desk, tugging at his tie as he walks. “How much do you know about our heritage, Briana?”

Our heritage. Not mine. The Order’s heritage and history. His and Nick’s.

“Thirteen knights. Merlin. The Round Table…” I turn my gaze inward and search for my Bloodcraft, for the part of me that might be able to burn these ropes, but nothing responds. I’ve shoved my grandmother away so far I can’t reach her. My insides feel like they’re full of numbing cotton. Why can’t I—

“Don’t bother tryin’ to get free,” Davis says without turning. “Isaac’s mesmer is quite draining, even for you.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “Oh yes. We know about your inherent resistance to mesmer. Isaac saw Selwyn’s mark inside your skull earlier tonight. Remnants of a memory replacement that, it appears, never took. Further reason to take you in.”

I don’t bother denying it. If that’s all he thinks I can do, the better for me.

He crosses the room to pull down a wall map of Western Europe. “There were one hundred and fifty knights of the Round Table at first. The table bein’ metaphorical at this point, of course.” He taps the map with his knuckle. “And these knights were known all throughout Europe.”

“Wonderful for them,” I snap.

Davis hums and turns away from the map. He props himself on the edge of his desk. “Legends of individual knights’ feats and chivalry stretch even beyond that, even as far as Africa.”

The casual tone in his voice does nothing to hide where he’s going. What he might say. Fear grips my body.

His voice is easy, light. A gentleman making an innocent inquiry. “Have you heard of the knight called Moriaen?”

He waits, smile patient and smug, for my response. The moment stretches out between us, endless and strained, until I reply, my voice thin as air. “No.”