Chapter 2

The Remington estate was a fortress nestled deep in a private valley, miles from any town. Barbed wire topped high stone walls. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter.

They didn't take me to the main house, a sprawling mansion I glimpsed through the trees.

They threw me into a damp, windowless room in what looked like an old stable block. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. A thin mattress lay on the concrete floor.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, the bolt ramming home with a sound of finality.

Days blurred.

Sometimes Keller came.

He'd sit on a hard wooden chair they brought in, just watching me.

"Tell me where they are buried," he'd say, his voice devoid of emotion.

"I told you, they weren't..."

"Don't lie to me." His fist would clench. "My parents trusted your people. Walked into your territory. And they never walked out."

He believed it. Utterly.

His grief had hardened into a diamond-sharp hatred.

When he wasn't there, the guards brought me meager food. Water.

They made me clean the stables. Muck out stalls for horses I never saw. My hands, accustomed to the delicate work of nurturing the Sunbeam Vine, became raw and calloused.

The life force within me, already weak from being away from Sunbeam Ridge, felt like a guttering candle flame.

One evening, the door opened and Keller stood there, silhouetted against the fading light.

He held a small, ornate silver box.

"Sophia found this in my mother's old research notes," he said. He opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a dried, pressed flower. A tiny, pale imitation of a Sunbeam blossom.

"My mother wrote about your tribe's 'healing flower.' About its unique properties."

His eyes narrowed. "She wrote that its cultivation required a... special touch. A life link."

I said nothing.

"Is that you, Ella? Are you the 'special touch'?"

He stepped closer. I could smell the expensive cologne on him, a scent so out of place in my prison.

"If I let you wither and die in here, does your precious flower die too?"

The thought seemed to please him. A cruel smile touched his lips.

Then, just as quickly, it vanished.

"But I need you alive," he said, almost to himself. "You still haven't told me about my parents."

He left the box on the floor and walked out.

Sometimes, late at night, I'd hear music drifting from the main house. Laughter.

Once, I saw him walking in the manicured gardens with a woman. She was beautiful, blonde, leaning on his arm, her head on his shoulder.

Sophia Wexler. His fiancée. The newspapers had been full of their engagement before I left the Ridge.

He looked... happy.

The sight was a cold knot in my stomach. He lived his life, built on a lie, while my people faced extinction.

One morning, a guard threw a bucket of icy water over me.

"Get up. You're working in the main house today."

My heart sank.

Sophia wanted new flowerbeds planted.

I spent hours on my knees in the rich soil, under the disdainful eyes of uniformed gardeners, my fingers digging into the earth. It was a mockery of the sacred work I used to do.

Keller watched me from a balcony, a drink in his hand. He didn't intervene. He just watched.

His gaze was a weight. Possessive. Cold.

He wouldn't let me die. Not yet.

I was his tool. His prisoner.

His to break.