I don’t even know if we’re still in the city. God, we could be in a whole different country for all I know. I don’t think so, however. The Irish Mob, the Italian Mafia, the Polish Braterstwo, the Russian Bratva—they’re all warring for control of Chicago, as they have been for generations. Sprinkle in a hundred other gangs and cohorts, locally grown and foreign, with fortunes rising and falling, and the balance of power bending and shifting . . .

Nobody leaves. Nobody gives up the fight.

The Beast wants his revenge, and he wants the city, too. He wouldn’t take me too far away. Because then he’d be too far from Chicago himself.

I bet we’re still within an hour of the city. Maybe inside of Chicago itself. There’s plenty of old mansions—I could be in any of them.

And if I am still in Chicago . . . then my family will find me. I’m sure of it. They’ll never stop hunting. They’ll bring me home.

That thought is like a butterfly, fluttering inside of my chest.

It buoys me up as Jonas silently leads me through the double doors of a grand dining room.

A long table fills the space, the kind that could feast a king and his entire court. Nobody sits at the dozens of chairs on either side. There’s just one man seated at the head: the Beast.

All the platters of food are clustered at that end. Roasted chicken stuffed with lemon, a white filet of sole, braised vegetables, beet salad, fluffy piles of mashed potatoes dripping melted butter. Crusty brown bread, finely sliced, and a tureen of creamy mushroom soup. Goblets of dark red wine.

Two places have been laid: one for him, and one for me.

The food is untouched. Mikolaj waited for me.

He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, charcoal gray, with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows to show his tattooed forearms. His tattoos rise up his neck, intricate and dark, like a high collar. The smooth skin of his face and hands looks ghostly pale by contrast.

His expression is wolf-like—hungry and malevolent. His eyes are wolf’s eyes, blue and wintry.

They pull me in, against my will. I meet his gaze, look away, then have to look back again. We’re the only two people in the room. Jonas has left us.

“Sit,” Mikolaj says sharply.

He indicates the seat right next to him.

I’d prefer to be much further down the table.

It’s pointless to argue, however—with a snap of his fingers, he could call back his bodyguard. Jonas would shove me down in whatever chair the Beast demands. He could tie me to it. And there’s not a thing I could do to stop him.

As soon I sink down on the cushioned seat, my nostrils fill with the warm and tantalizing scent of the food. Saliva floods into my mouth. I had almost gotten over being hungry. Now I feel weak and dizzy, desperate to eat.

Mikolaj sees it.

“Go ahead,” he says.

My tongue darts out to moisten my lips.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie weakly.

Mikolaj makes an irritated sound.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “I know you haven’t eaten in days.”

I swallow hard.

“And I’m not going to,” I say. “I don’t want your food. I want to go home.”

He barks out a laugh.

“You’re not going home,” he says. “Ever.”

Oh my god.

No, I don’t believe that. I can’t believe it.

I’m not staying here, and I’m not eating his food.

I twist my hands into a knot in my lap.

“Then I guess I’ll starve,” I say softly.

The Beast spears a piece of roast beef with a set of pointed tongs. He lays it on his plate, picks up his knife and fork, and saws off a bite. Then he puts it in his mouth, staring at me while he slowly chews and swallows.

“Do you think I care if you starve?” he asks conversationally. “I want you to suffer, little ballerina. On my terms, not yours. If you continue to refuse your meals, I’ll tie you to your bed and shove a feeding tube down your throat. You won’t die until I allow it. At the perfect moment, orchestrated by me.”

I really am faint. My plan seems more foolish by the minute. What does it benefit me, to be tied to the bed? What good does it do to starve? It’s just making me weaker. Even if I had an opportunity to escape, I’d be too drained to take advantage of it.

I twist my hands, tighter and tighter.

I don’t want to give in to him. But I don’t know what else I can do. He’s put me in a trap. Every move I make only tightens the noose.

“Alright,” I say, at last. “I’ll eat.”

“Good.” He nods. “Start with some broth so you don’t throw it all up again.”

“On one condition,” I say.

He scoffs. “You don’t set conditions.”

“It’s nothing onerous.”

Mikolaj waits to hear it, perhaps out of simple curiosity.

“I’m bored in my room. I’d like to go into the library, and down to the garden. You’ve got this thing on my ankle. And cameras, and guards. I won’t try to escape.”

I don’t really expect him to agree. After all, why should he? He told me that he wants me to suffer. Why should he allow me any entertainment?

To my surprise, he considers the proposal.

“You’ll eat, and shower, and put on clean clothes every day,” he says.

“Yes.” I nod my head, too eagerly.

“Then you can go around the house and garden. Everywhere but the west wing.”

I don’t ask him what’s in the west wing. That’s probably where his own rooms are located. Or where he keeps the severed heads of his victims, mounted on the wall like hunting trophies. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

Mikolaj ladles the beef broth into my bowl, carelessly so that some of it splashes out onto the plate.

“There,” he says. “Eat.”

I spoon it into my mouth. It is, without a doubt, the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Rich, buttery, warm, expertly seasoned. I want to lift the bowl and drink it all down.

“Slow,” he warns me. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Once I’ve eaten half the soup, I take a sip of the wine. That’s delicious too, tart and fragrant. I only take the one sip, because I barely ever drink, and I definitely don’t want to lose my wits around the Beast. I’m not stupid enough to think he brought me down here just to feed me.

He’s silent until we’ve both finished eating. Almost everything on the table is still untouched. I could only handle the soup and a little bread. He ate the beef with a small serving of vegetables. No wonder he’s so lean. Maybe he doesn’t like human food. Maybe he prefers drinking warm blood.

When he’s finished, he pushes his plate to the side and leans his chin in the palm of his hand, fixing me with his icy stare.

“What do you know about your family’s business?” he asks me.

I’d been feeling warm and happy from the influx of food, but I immediately close up again, like a clam hit with a blast of cold water.

“Nothing,” I tell him, setting down my spoon. “I don’t know anything at all. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” he says. His eyes gleam with amusement. He finds this funny, for some inscrutable reason.