Page 7 of Riot

Of course.

Because when something precious enters this house, it’s my job to keep it breathing. My job to polish it, feed it, keep it obedient until he decides what to do with it. Until he decides how to ruin it.

The tiger is so small now. Too small. Its paws are too big for its skinny legs, its ribs flutter every time it breathes, like even sleeping is a fight. They shoved it into a crate like it’s a kitten, not a predator. But in a few months? It’ll outgrow this metal box. Its teeth will lengthen, sharpen. Its claws will harden into weapons. The creature they see as a prize today will become a nightmare they can't cage later.

God, I hope I’m gone before that happens.

This wild animal belongs in the jungle, living freely. Not in some mob boss’s compound.

But maybe it’ll wake up one night, wild and furious, and tear Boaz’s smug face off before anyone can shoot it down. Maybe it’ll be free for a split second, even if it dies for it. Even if it gets put down.

Even one second of real freedom would be worth it.

That thought slices through me harder than I expect, making my throat burn. Because how long have I been dreaming of the same thing?

I’ve been trying to escape Boaz for years. Plotting in the quiet hours. Praying when I’m sure nobody’s listening. Memorizing the guard rotations, the codes, the new security tech he brags about after every upgrade. Watching every window, every lock, every camera like my life depends on it—because it does.

And every time I think I’ve found a crack in his armor, a way out?—

Something shifts.

A new face shows up.

A door that used to be easy suddenly needs a different keycode.

A window that used to creak open suddenly reinforced with steel.

Boaz always stays five steps ahead. Like he knows my heartbeats better than I do. Like he hears my silent prayers and laughs before they even reach heaven.

Always Boaz.

But tonight... something feels different.

Like the house is holding its breath.

Like something cracked in the foundation whenhecame.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

The man who brought the cub.

Tall. Broad. Dark-skinned. Tattoos snaking up his arms and neck, stories inked into his skin that I’d never be brave enoughto ask about. His mouth gleamed with gold grills when he spoke—like he dared the world to tell him he didn’t belong.

He moved through Boaz’s fortress the way a fire moves through dry grass—quiet, controlled, inevitable.

And his eyes...

They didn’t devour me like Boaz’s men.

Didn’t strip me bare like a prize they planned to buy.

They just...sawme.

Not the Virgin.

Not the obedient shadow wrapped in white.

Not the empty smile and the bowed head Boaz trained me to perfect.

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