CHAPTER 10 — KNIFE-LIGHT
Rowan’s mouth found my throat like a claim.
I let my body soften, as if surrender were fatigue.
My left hand slid up his chest, fingers spreading on velvet.
My right hand drifted lower—slow, unthreatening—toward his belt.
Rowan exhaled, pleased.
He wanted my eagerness.
He wanted me to mistake access for intimacy.
His coat gaped.
The belt clip flashed again: metal shaped like ornament, too precise to be antique.
I hooked a finger under the edge of his coat as if pulling him closer.
My thumb pressed the hidden clasp.
A small release.
The hard rectangle in his pocket shifted.
A device.
Rowan’s grip tightened on my wrist at once.
“Not yet,” he murmured, amused. “Obedience first.”
His amusement was confidence.
Confidence makes men careless in the same places every time.
I leaned into him, lips near his ear.
“My lord,” I whispered, breath warm. “Let me prove it.”
My knee brushed his thigh.
I felt the line of his weight settle.
Then I moved.
Fast enough to surprise.
Not fast enough to look panicked.
My fingers slipped beneath the lace tied high on my thigh.
Steel came free into my palm—short, dark, honed.
I pressed the blade to the pulse at Rowan’s neck.
The edge kissed skin.
Rowan froze so completely the candle seemed to freeze with him.
His eyes went wide.
The cane dropped from his hand and clattered on the floor.
“What—” he rasped.
A bead of blood welled where the point bit in.
I watched it form.
Watched it roll.
“My questions,” I said, low. “Your answers.”
Rowan swallowed.
His throat moved against the blade.
I pressed a fraction harder.
He went still again.
“Shout,” I said, “and you’ll die before your men reach the door.”
Rowan’s breath came quick, shallow.
“You won’t,” he whispered, trying to find bravado. “You’re property.”
The word hit like spit.
I tilted the blade.
The blood line widened.
“You’re wrong,” I said. “Property doesn’t get to choose this.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked—toward the door, toward the drapes, toward where help should exist.
Nothing came.
He was powerful.
He was also alone.
“Your phone,” I said. “Now.”
Rowan’s lips pulled back.
For a second I saw the man beneath the prince costume.
A man who thought systems would always protect him.
“I don’t—” he began.
I cut him off with pressure, not a cut.
Just enough to remind him how close the artery sat.
Rowan’s voice broke.
“Security takes them,” he said. “Checkpoint storage. Faraday lockers.”
“How far?” I asked.
“Ten minutes,” he gasped. “On foot.”
I kept the blade at his throat and slid behind him.
I looped the bedcord around his wrists.
It wasn’t rope, not truly—silk braided over wire for decoration.
It held.
I pulled tight until his hands whitened.
“Stand,” I said.
Rowan stood, shaking.
I steered him to the door like a shield.
I opened it hard.
The corridor was empty.
Too empty.
A house like this never stayed empty.
I pushed Rowan forward anyway.
We moved fast—fast enough to cover ground, slow enough to look controlled.
Down the stairs.
Past a lantern alcove where a guard should have been.
No guard.
Past the main hall where music should have been.
No music.
Only a thin hum under the floorboards.
Electric.
Live.
A system waking up.
At the landing, a small black lens in the corner turned.
Barely.
A pupil behind glass.
I felt it track us.
We reached the lobby.
Madam Crowe stood near the desk as if she’d been waiting.
Her fan stopped mid-sweep when she saw Rowan’s throat at my blade.
Her eyes didn’t widen.
Not with surprise.
With calculation.
“Winter,” she said softly, like a mother calling a child back from the street. “Put that down.”
Rowan choked out, “Let her go—let her go—she’ll do it!”
Madam Crowe’s gaze flicked to the ceiling.
To another lens.
Then back to me.
A second later, a small screen behind the desk lit up.
A white line of text appeared, unadorned:
EVENT LOG: SUBJECT WINTER — DEVIATION LEVEL 2
LOCATION: MAIN LOBBY
RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: CONTAINMENT
My stomach tightened.
Not fear.
A kind of grim relief.
There it was.
The system’s handwriting.
Madam Crowe swallowed and kept her smile.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” she said.
Behind her, the lobby doors—old oak made to look centuries old—clicked.
A modern lock engaging.
The sound was crisp.
New.
From the corner, a second screen blinked:
ACCESS UPDATE: HOUSE EXITS — LOCKED
AUTHORIZED: R. ROWAN
Rowan’s face went gray.
He’d triggered it without meaning to.
Or the system had triggered it with his name.
I pressed the blade closer.
“Open them,” I said to Rowan.
He licked his lips.
He looked at Madam Crowe as if she might save him.
Madam Crowe didn’t move.
Rowan’s voice cracked. “Do it. Open them. Now.”
Madam Crowe touched the panel under the desk.
The locks released with a soft mechanical sigh.
A corridor of cold air rushed in.
Salt and night.
I pushed Rowan out.
The island’s “street” waited—stone, lanterns, painted banners hanging limp in the damp.
We moved toward the checkpoint.
The cameras followed.
I could feel their attention like fingers at my back.
Halfway there, a figure slid into our path and dropped to her knees.
Pearl.
Her hair was loose, face bare, scar sharp against her cheek.
Tears shone in her eyes.
Real enough to wet skin.
“Winter,” she pleaded. “Please—don’t go.”
I kept walking.
Pearl crawled forward, grabbing at my hem.
“If you leave,” she whispered, voice breaking, “they’ll punish me. They’ll send me to the lower houses.”
Rowan hissed, “Get her away—get her away!”
Pearl looked up at me.
Her eyes searched for the old hook in me.
The sister hook.
The guilt hook.
I stared down at her.
My injured knuckles throbbed.
A reminder of my first mistake.
“You’ll survive,” I said.
Pearl’s tears wavered.
For a second, anger flashed behind them.
Then she looked past me.
To the cameras.
She raised her voice, louder now, performing for the lenses.
“She’s taking His Highness hostage!” she screamed. “She’s insane!”
The scream tore through the street.
And somewhere, in some unseen room, a log line was born.