The room they placed her in was not a cell.
That was the first thing she noticed.
No chains.
No bars.
No damp stone walls meant to humiliate rather than contain.
Instead—
There was polished wood beneath her feet.
A single upholstered chair bolted discreetly to the floor.
Tall windows that revealed nothing but darkness beyond reinforced glass.
A writing desk.
A lamp.
Ridiculous.
Strategic.
Ugh—
"Comfortable?" came a voice from the doorway.
Elara did not turn.
Did not give him the satisfaction.
The Rival Alpha stepped in anyway, the quiet click of his shoes too measured to be casual.
Too deliberate to be anything but performance.
"You should sit," he advised mildly.
"Go to hell."
He laughed.
Not offended.
Not even surprised.
"Ah, yes. There it is."
His gaze slid over her wrists where the restraint bands rested like jewelry rather than shackles.
"You were always going to be spirited."
She finally looked at him then.
Cold.
Disdain tightening her mouth.
