I get to my feet, and despite the alarm blaring through my head, I raise my eyes to his as our palms press together.

Displeasure pulls at his mouth. “We have a lot to cover.” With a tug of my hand, he urges me toward the door, and I follow him as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

2

I don’t have many negative memories of my childhood before my parents’ plane went down. The first twelve years of my life were filled with love, laughter, and a sense of security I’m not sure I’ll ever experience again.

But one incident springs to the forefront of my mind as I descend a steep staircase behind Mr. Bordeaux, scones flooding warm light onto the brick walls as our feet scuttle down utilitarian plank steps.

It was the year before my parents died, and Faye and I escaped into the wine cellar, pretending to run from an evil dragon that would take us to the Black Prince—a handsome young boy who intended to enslave us in the tower of his castle.

Instead, we’d ended up enslaving ourselves in the cellar, trapped by an ill-fated jammed door and a busted light maintenance hadn’t yet fixed since it went out the day before. To pass the hours until someone finally found us, we’d huddled in the dark, pretending the darkness kept us safe from the dragon.

But real life doesn’t work like that. Darkness is a stifling entity I now despise, and there isn’t a thing on Earth that will keep the dragon away.

My heart rate doubles by the time we reach the bottom of the staircase. Mr. Bordeaux uses a key to unlock a black iron gate, and I follow him deeper into the dim, cold space. If I had to choose one word to describe this place, it would be…

Horrifying.

It has the feel of a dungeon, with bars sectioning off cells to imprison the punished, and shackles hanging from the ceiling. But the word dungeon doesn’t quite fit either. There’s a decadence to the strange furnishings—the various high-end benches outfitted in dark red leather, and the massive bed sitting off by itself in another sectioned-off space, the sheets an onyx satin and the duvet a vibrant crimson.

The color of passion.

The color of pain.

The bed sits atop a cage, ominous in undertone. Thick leather cuffs dangle from the wooden bedposts, the sight of which shoots a shiver down the slope of my neck. My gaze stalls on an iron rack on the wall reserved for riding crops, whips, and other items that are equally terrifying and unknown. Opposite of that rack stands a wooden X, shackles waiting for wrists and ankles.