Page 17 of Taken

For the next hour, he outlines the facility’s purpose with clinical detachment. Magical asset management. Intelligence gathering. Prophecy extraction. The terms so sterile they almost mask the torture they describe.

I ask the right questions. Make the right observations. Play the part of the professional brought in to tighten security around valuable tools.

“Your primary concern will be the Level Four asset,” Creed finally says, sliding a file across the table. “Lila Ross. Our most valuable resource.”

I open the file and study the photograph clipped inside. The same woman from Viktor’s intel, but more recent. Gaunt face. Silver streak more pronounced in her dark hair. Eyes that seem to look through the camera rather than at it.

“Rossewyn witch,” I say with appropriate recognition. “Thought they were extinct.”

“Nearly. She’s the last full-blooded specimen we’ve confirmed.” Creed’s lip curls slightly. “Powerful, but contained. Her handler, Hargen, maintains a strict regimen.”

“Extraction results?”

“Variable. More so recently.” Irritation flickers across his face. “She’s the longest-surviving seer in our program. But lately, her cooperation has… fluctuated.”

Translation: she’s finding ways to resist. Good for her. Bad for my mission.

“Security concerns?”

“Early escape attempts. Nothing in recent years. But,” he taps the file, “we don’t take chances with assets of her caliber. Especially now.”

“Something changed?” I keep my tone professionally curious.

Creed studies me for a moment, deciding how much to share. “Unexplained energy readings near Craven territory. Unprecedented. Potentially game-changing.” He leans forward. “We need to know what’s causing them. What they mean. The witch has provided… fragments. We need more.”

I nod, understanding the subtext. They’re pushing her harder. Risking permanent damage for answers.

“I’d like to observe an extraction. Understand the protocols.”

“Scheduled for fourteen hundred hours. You’ll attend.” He stands, indicating our meeting is over. “Simpson will show you to your quarters and provide facility access while you’re shown around. I expect a full security assessment by the end of the week.”

As we exit the conference room, I notice a wall of monitors—surveillance feeds from throughout the facility. My eyes automatically scan for Level Four, North Quadrant.

There. A woman sitting by a window, staring out at mountains she can’t reach. Even on the grainy feed, there’s something about her that demands attention. A stillness that speaks of patience rather than defeat. The set of her shoulders suggesting readiness rather than resignation.

“The witch?” I ask Simpson, nodding toward the screen.

“Yes, sir. All Level Four assets are under constant surveillance.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, uncomfortable discussing the facility’s prisoners. I’m sure that Creed pays top dollar to employ human staff, but what goes on in here probably shakes even the most callous of them.

I step closer to the monitor, studying the feed. The room is surprisingly comfortable—more like an upscale apartment than a cell. Deliberate, of course. Gilded cages are still cages.

As I watch, the witch—Lila—turns suddenly toward the camera. It’s as if she senses my observation… impossible as that should be with the facility’s dampening fields.

Even through the poor resolution, her features captivate me—high cheekbones framing a face too thin from years of hardship, full lips set in a determined line, straight dark hair that falls past her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that hold me—intense, silvery-gray, and carrying an intelligence that transcends the digital barrier.

For a split second, our gazes lock through the surveillance feed.

Fuck.

Something electric shoots through my blood. Recognition without reason. Awareness without understanding. My dragon stirs beneath my skin, scales shifting with unexpected response.

Dangerous.

I force myself to look away, to follow Simpson down the corridor.

But the impression remains—those eyes, seeing too much. A woman who’s survived hell without breaking. Slender body tense with coiled strength rather than defeat. A Rossewyn witch whose power persists despite everything designed to contain it.

If anyone knows what’s coming—what the energy fluctuations mean, what’s happening with the Cravens, what plans the Syndicate has for it all—it’s her.

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