The housekeeper's name was Elena. She had a face like a pinched lemon and eyes that said she'd happily poison Harper's soup.

"This way," she snapped.

She led Harper up the grand staircase, past the second floor, up a narrow, winding flight of stairs to the third floor. This was the servants' quarters, or maybe the attic.

She opened a door at the end of the hall.

"Here."

The room was small. Round. It was inside one of the turrets. The walls were bare stone. There was a single bed, a small sink, and a window.

The window had iron bars on it.

"It's a cell," Harper said.

"It's what you deserve," Elena spat. She grabbed Harper's backpack from her shoulder. "Mr. Burke says no contraband."

"Hey!"

She dumped the contents onto the floor. Harper's few clothes, a toothbrush, a book on neuroanatomy. And her leather roll.

Elena kicked the leather roll. "What is this? Drug paraphernalia?"

"Don't touch that."

Harper's voice dropped an octave. She stepped forward.

Elena sneered and bent down to pick it up. "I'm throwing this trash out."

Harper moved.

She didn't think about it. She grabbed Elena's wrist, her thumb pressing into the Taiyuan point. She applied just enough pressure to send a shockwave of pain up Elena's radial nerve.

Elena shrieked and dropped the roll. She clutched her arm, staring at Harper in horror.

"You... you witch!"

"Leave it," Harper said, her chest heaving. "Get out."

Elena backed away, fear warring with anger in her eyes. "I'm telling Mr. Burke! You're going to regret this!"

She slammed the door. Harper heard the lock click from the outside.

She was locked in.

Harper sank to the floor, gathering her tools. They were safe.

She looked around the room. It was a birdcage. A gilded, stone birdcage.

Harper went to the window. The rain was lashing against the glass. She looked at the bars. They were old iron, set deep into the stone. But...

She squinted. The spacing. It was about six inches.

Most people couldn't fit their head through that. But Harper wasn't most people. She had hyper-mobility. It was a genetic quirk of the Solis line, enhanced by years of yoga and contortion training for the circus.

She could dislocate her shoulders. She could compress her ribcage.

If she could get out, she could climb down the ivy. The wall wasn't that high here.

Harper checked the door. Locked solid.

She looked at the window again. It was madness. It was dangerous.

But she couldn't stay here. Not with Finn. Not with the memories.

Harper waited until the house went quiet. Until the lights in the garden dimmed.

She stripped off the sequined bodysuit and put on her dark leggings and a tight black t-shirt. She tied her hair back.

She approached the window.

"Sorry, Finn," she whispered. "I don't do cages."

The rain was Harper's cover. It was a torrential downpour, loud enough to mask any noise she made.

She opened the window. The wind howled, soaking her instantly.

She looked at the bars. Okay. Left shoulder first.

Harper took a deep breath and pushed. She felt the sickening pop as she voluntarily subluxated her left shoulder joint. Pain, white-hot and blinding, shot through her arm. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

She slid her arm and head through the gap. Then her chest. She exhaled all the air from her lungs, making herself as flat as possible. Her ribs scraped against the iron.

She was halfway out.

Harper had to twist her torso at an unnatural angle, her spine screaming in protest, to get her hips through the narrow opening. Her skin scraped raw against the rusted metal.

She fell onto the small ledge outside the window.

Harper sat there for a moment in the pouring rain, gasping, shaking. She grabbed her left arm and slammed it back into the socket. A fresh wave of nausea hit her, but the arm worked.

She looked down. Three stories. Thick ivy covered the stone.

Harper grabbed the vines. They were slick but strong.

She began to descend.

Her hands slipped. Her boots scrambled for purchase. But she moved fast. Down. Down. Down.

Her feet hit the muddy grass.

She was out.

Harper stayed low, moving like a shadow toward the perimeter wall. She knew where the cameras were-she had spotted them from the car. She weaved through the blind spots.

The wall was twelve feet high. She ran at it, planted her foot, and vaulted up, grabbing the top edge.

She pulled herself up.

Freedom. Just over this wall was the road.

Harper swung her leg over.

Click.

A blinding beam of light hit her in the face.

She froze, straddling the wall.

Below her, on the other side, stood a phalanx of security guards holding black umbrellas.

And in the center, sitting in his wheelchair under a large canopy, was Finn.

He was holding a steaming mug of coffee. He looked like he had been waiting for hours.

"Impressive," he called out. His voice carried over the rain. "Better than the circus act."

Harper squinted against the light. "Let me go, Finn."

"Jump," he said calmly. "Go ahead. Run."

He gestured to the guard on his right. The man raised a rifle. It wasn't a lethal weapon-it was a tranquilizer gun.

"You'll make it maybe ten yards before you're unconscious in a ditch," Finn said. "Then I'll drag you back. It's undignified."

Harper looked at the road. Then at the gun. Then at Finn.

She was trapped.

Defeated, she swung her leg back over and dropped down into the mud on the inside of the wall.

She walked toward him, head bowed, water streaming off her nose. She stopped in front of his wheelchair. She was shivering violently.

Finn handed his coffee cup to Silas.

"You thought I didn't know?" he asked softly. "I have thermal sensors in the walls, Harper. I watched you pop your shoulder out. It was... grotesque."

"Why are you doing this?" Harper whispered.

"Because you belong to me."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black metal ring. It pulsed with a faint red light.

"Give me your hand."

Back in the study. The fire was roaring, but Harper couldn't get warm.

She stood on the Persian rug, dripping muddy water onto the expensive wool.

Finn sat opposite her. He held the black ring.

"Left hand," he ordered.

Harper hesitated.

"Do you want me to call the hospital and cancel the surgery?"

Harper thrust her hand out.

He snapped the ring around her wrist. It clicked shut with a sound of finality. It was heavy. Cold. It fit tightly against the bone.

"Titanium alloy," Finn said, admiring his handiwork. "GPS tracking. Heart rate monitor. If you leave the perimeter of the estate without my code, it alerts the police. If you try to cut it off, it alerts the police."

Harper tugged at it. It was unyielding.

"It's a shackle," she said.

"It's a reminder," he corrected. "The human body has 206 bones. This is your 207th bone. It's part of you now. It's the part that belongs to me."

Harper stared at the red light blinking on her wrist. It synced with her pulse. Blink. Blink. Blink.

"You're sick," she said.

"I'm pragmatic." He spun his chair around. "Go shower. You smell like a wet dog. There's a bathroom through there. You sleep in here tonight."

"On the floor?"

"Unless you prefer the kennel."

Harper walked into the bathroom. It was larger than her entire apartment in Queens. She stripped off her wet clothes. Her body was covered in bruises from the escape attempt. Her shoulder ached.

She stepped into the shower. The hot water hit her, stinging her cuts.

Harper scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to wash off the feeling of his eyes on her. She looked at the black ring.

She tried to squeeze her hand through it. She tried to dislocate her thumb. But the ring was designed perfectly. It sat right on the styloid process of the ulna. It wasn't coming off.

Harper leaned her forehead against the tiles and cried. Silent, hot tears that mixed with the shower water.

She wasn't Phoenix anymore. She wasn't Harper the mechanic.

She was property.