Page 32 of Taken

“Let me help you to the couch.”

I should refuse. Should tell him to leave. Should maintain the wall between captive and captor that’s kept me sane for years.

Instead, I let him guide me to the small sofa. Let his hand linger at my waist longer than necessary. Let myself lean into his strength because, just for a moment, I’m too tired to stand alone.

He disappears into the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth.

“Here.” He offers it without touching me.

I press it to my nose, watching him over the edge. He prowls my quarters, catlike and tense, eyes scanning every corner as if enemies might materialize from the walls.

“Bit late for a security check,” I say.

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Dragons never do.” I lower the cloth, checking for fresh blood.

“And witches?” He turns, catching me studying him. “Do they sleep?”

“Not if they want to control what they see.”

Understanding flickers across his face. Not sympathy—I wouldn’t trust that—but recognition. He knows about prophetic dreams. Knows more than a Syndicate operative should.

“What did you see?” he asks, voice dropping to something intimate in the midnight quiet.

“Nothing that would interest your masters.”

“Humor me.” He sits in the chair across from me, closing the distance between us. His knee almost touches mine.

I should lie. Should give him a fragment, a misdirection. Years of survival instinct screams at me to reveal nothing.

“A heart made of fire.” The truth slips out, surprising us both. “Crimson crystal that lives. That beats.”

He goes very still. “The Heartstone.”

“Perhaps.”

“What else?”

My throat tightens. The rest of the vision swirls behind my eyes—Elena, all grown up, surrounded by fire that didn’t burn her. Power she inherited from me. Power that makes her a target.

“Nothing clear.” I lie again. I won’t risk Elena, not even for this strange connection I feel.

“You’re lying.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. Our faces now inches apart. “You saw more.”

“Everyone sees what they want to see, Mr. Reeve. Even dragons.”

His mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile. “Even witches who pretend to be broken?”

My breath catches. The accusation hangs between us, dangerous and true. I’ve let them believe their containment fields work better than they do. Let them think they’ve tamed me.

“Careful,” I whisper. “Syndicate walls have ears.”

“Not tonight.” His voice drops lower. “I disabled the monitoring system for my inspection. Standard security protocol.”

Another lie. Another truth between us, unspoken but understood.

He’s not who he claims to be.

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