Screams tore me from sleep.
It wasn’t a nightmare. The raw, terrifying sounds were real, and they were echoing up from the dining room.
I forced myself out of bed. My body screamed in protest, every inch aching from the miscarriage surgery, from the shove, from the rain. Moving felt like wading through heavy sludge.
Downstairs, panic had consumed the house.
Leo was gasping for air, his face swollen and mottled red, hives blooming violently across his neck. It was unmistakable—an anaphylactic reaction.
Elena was shrieking, pointing a manic finger at the table. "She did it! She tried to kill him!"
Dante was clutching the boy, shouting orders to his men to get the epinephrine. He looked up as I stumbled into the room. His eyes were not human. They were void of all light—the eyes of the Reaper.
"What did you put in his oatmeal?" he roared.
I stood by the door frame, gripping the wood to keep from collapsing. "I haven't been in the kitchen," I stammered. "I've been sleeping."
"Liar!" Elena screamed. She pointed a shaking finger at me. "I saw her! I saw her near the pantry. She knows he's allergic to peanuts! She wants him dead because she can’t give you one herself! She's barren!"
The word hit me like a physical blow. Barren.
How did she know? I hadn't told Dante yet. I hadn't told anyone.
Dante didn't ask for proof. He didn't summon the chef. Fear for his son had eclipsed all reason. He handed the gasping boy to a medic and marched toward me.
He grabbed me by the hair.
"Dante, please," I gasped, clawing at his wrist. "Check the cameras."
"I trusted you," he spat, his voice a lethal growl. "I brought you into my home. I gave you everything. And you attack a child?"
He dragged me. He didn't pull me toward his office. He didn't take me to the front door. He took me to the heavy iron door behind the kitchen.
The Cellar.
It was a damp, stone chamber built during Prohibition to hide liquor and, later, bodies. It flooded whenever it rained.
"Dante, no," I begged, my heels skidding uselessly on the floor. "I'm sick. Please."
He threw me down the stairs.
I tumbled into the dark, my body slamming against cold stone before splashing into three inches of stagnant water.
"Think about what you've done," he said.
He slammed the door. The lock engaged with a sound like a gunshot.
Total darkness swallowed me. The water soaked instantly into my pajamas, freezing me to the bone. I could hear things moving in the corners. Scurrying. Chittering.
I scrambled to the highest point, a wooden pallet in the center of the room, and curled into a tight, shivering ball.
Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time didn't exist in the dark.
Then, the slot in the door slid open. A beam of light cut through the gloom, blinding me.
Elena's face appeared in the rectangle. She was smiling.
"You look comfortable, Princess," she whispered.
"Let me out," I said. My voice was a broken croak.
"Not yet," she said. "Dante is very upset. He's at the hospital with Leo. He told me to come check on the prisoner."
She lifted a burlap sack into view.
"I thought you might get lonely," she said.
She upended the sack through the slot.
The contents hit the water with wet, heavy splashes.
Squeaks. The frantic scratching of claws on stone.
Rats.
Panic, primal and overwhelming, seized my throat. I screamed. I screamed until I tasted copper.
Elena laughed. It was a soft, tinkling sound that chilled me more than the water.
"Don't worry, Sera. I'm going to take good care of Dante. He's going to be a great father to my son. You were just a placeholder."
She slammed the slot shut.
I was left alone with the scratching claws and the rising water. I didn't scream anymore. I sat on the pallet, hugging my knees, and I let the fear burn out until there was nothing left but ash.
