The sun was a pale, anemic thing struggling to rise over the horizon.

My fingers were blue.

They were stiff, clumsy appendages that refused to obey the desperate commands of my brain.

I sat huddled against the brick pillar of the gate, the emerald silk spread across my lap like a pool of frozen blood.

I had been sewing for six hours.

Every push of the needle had been a battle.

My hands-the hands of an architect that used to draw straight lines and complex structures-were shaking uncontrollably.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to focus, using the sharp sting of pain to ground myself.

The last stitch.

I bit through the thread because my scissors were buried somewhere in the snow, and I couldn't feel my fingers enough to hunt for them.

I stood up.

My legs screamed in protest.

The cold had settled deep into my bones, a heavy, aching weight that made me feel brittle, as if I might shatter.

I pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

The gate clicked open.

I walked up the long driveway, the dress draped carefully over my arms to keep it from the slush.

Floyd and Jaylah were standing on the balcony above the main entrance.

They were drinking coffee.

The steam rising from their mugs looked like a distant miracle.

I stopped beneath them.

"It's done," I croaked. My voice was a broken rasp, ruined by the cold.

Floyd looked down.

He assessed the dress, his eyes scanning the seams for imperfections with a critical, unfeeling gaze.

"Bring it up," Jaylah said.

She didn't sound grateful. She sounded like she was inspecting a delivery from the dry cleaners.

I walked into the house.

The warmth of the foyer hit me like a physical blow, making my skin prickle and burn as the blood rushed violently back to the surface.

I climbed the stairs.

My face was a mask of bruises. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror-one eye swollen shut, a split lip, dried blood crusted on my chin.

I didn't just look injured; I looked like a casualty of war.

I walked onto the balcony.

I held the dress out to Jaylah.

She took it, her manicured fingers brushing against my ice-cold knuckles. She recoiled immediately, as if I were diseased.

She held the silk up to the light.

"It's decent work," she said, sniffing disdainfully.

Then she paused.

She pointed to a tiny, dark speck near the hem.

"What is this?"

I squinted, my vision blurring.

"It's... it might be a drop of blood," I whispered. "From my lip."

Jaylah dropped the dress as if it had caught fire.

"Disgusting," she spat. "You ruined it again. I can't wear this. It has her filth on it."

She looked at Floyd, her eyes wide with feigned outrage.

"She did it on purpose, Floyd. She wants to ruin our engagement party."

Floyd looked at the emerald silk lying on the floor.

Then he looked at me.

There was no sympathy in his gaze. Only irritation.

"Get out of my sight," he said. "Go to the guest quarters. You're confined until I decide what to do with you."

I turned to leave, but my eyes caught something draped over the railing.

It was a grey scarf.

Cashmere. Hand-knit.

I had spent three months knitting that for Floyd last winter.

I had chosen that specific wool because it was soft, because he always complained that the store-bought ones were too scratchy against his neck.

Jaylah saw me staring at it.

She picked it up.

"This old thing?" she laughed. "It's so tacky. It smells like a wet dog."

She looked at Floyd. "Can I toss it?"

My heart hammered against my ribs, a painful, frantic rhythm.

"Floyd," I said, my voice trembling. "I made that for you."

Floyd didn't look at me.

He looked out at the horizon, at the city he ruled.

"It's cheap trash," he said flatly. "Throw it."

Jaylah smiled.

She tossed the scarf over the railing.

I watched it fall.

It fluttered down, twisting in the wind, until it landed in the churned-up mud of the driveway where the SUVs had parked.

It landed right in a tire track.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was quiet.

It was the sound of the last tether holding me to this man dissolving into nothingness.

I didn't cry.

I was too cold to cry.

I just turned around and walked toward the guest rooms, leaving the dress, the scarf, and the man I used to love behind me.

Sleep was a luxury I wasn't afforded.

I had just managed to strip off my wet clothes and crawl under the thin blanket of the servant's bed in the guest quarters when the door burst open.

It wasn't Luca this time.

It was Floyd himself.

He consumed the doorway, radiating a frantic, violent energy that sucked the oxygen right out of the small room.

"Get up," he barked.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. My face throbbed with every terrified heartbeat.

"What?"

"Jaylah's mother," he said, his voice rough. "She's been hit."

My mind raced.

The Ryans were powerful. An attack on their Matriarch wasn't just a crime; it was an act of war.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered, my brain failing to bridge the gap. "But what does that have to do with me?"

Floyd crossed the room in two predatory strides.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was bruising, tight enough to cut off circulation instantly.

"She lost a lot of blood. The bullet hit an artery. We can't take her to a hospital; the cops are swarming the area."

He yanked me out of bed.

I stumbled, my bare feet hitting the cold floor hard.

"She has O-negative blood," Floyd said, staring at me with dead eyes. "So do you."

I froze.

I looked at him, searching for a trace of the boy who used to bring me soup when I had the flu all those years ago.

There was nothing.

There was only a predator looking at a resource.

"You want me to donate blood?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I'm not asking," he said.

He dragged me into the hallway.

I was wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear, exposed and shivering.

"Floyd, please," I said, trying to dig my heels into the carpet to slow him down. "I'm exhausted. I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. I lost blood in the snow..."

"You owe the Family," he snarled, not breaking his stride.

"I owe the Family?" I laughed, a hysterical, jagged sound that scraped my throat. "I took a bullet for you! I sewed that dress in the freezing cold! What more do I owe?"

He stopped.

He spun around and pinned me against the wall.

His face was inches from mine. I could smell the expensive cologne he wore, a scent that used to make me feel safe.

Now, it just made me want to retch.

"You owe us your life," he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "Because without my protection, the wolves would have eaten you years ago. You are property of the Meyers estate. And right now, my alliance with the Ryans is bleeding out on a table in the basement."

He leaned in closer, his dark eyes boring into mine.

"If she dies, the merger dies. If the merger dies, I lose the city. You are going to give her every drop she needs."

He didn't wait for an answer.

He hauled me down the back stairs, past the kitchen, and into the hidden elevator that led to the underground clinic.

The "Chop Shop."

It smelled of sharp antiseptic and old rust.

Jaylah was pacing in the waiting area. Her white fur coat was splattered with red.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up. Not with gratitude. With vindication.

"About time," she snapped. "She's fading."

Floyd didn't let go of my arm.

He dragged me past her, pushing me through the double doors of the operating room.

There was a woman on the table.

Jaylah's mother. The woman who had once called me a "stray dog" at a gala.

She was pale, unconscious, hooked up to monitors that were beeping frantically.

The doctor, a nervous man named Dr. Evans who was on the Meyers payroll, looked up with sweat beading on his forehead.

"She needs it now, Boss," Evans said, his voice pitching high. "Her pressure is bottoming out."

Floyd shoved me toward the empty gurney next to her.

"Hook her up," Floyd ordered.

"Floyd," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "I'm scared."

He didn't look at me.

He was looking at the monitor, watching the heart rate of the woman who meant power to him.

"Just bleed, Elizebeth," he said, cold as the grave. "It's the only thing you're good for right now."

The room was freezing.

It was a chill that had nothing to do with the snow outside; this freeze radiated from the marrow out, a hollow, rattling cold that settled deep in my bones.

I lay on the gurney, shivering uncontrollably.

Dr. Evans didn't bother with the gentle bedside manner he usually reserved for the Made Men.

He tied the tourniquet around my arm, pulling it tight enough to bite into the skin.

Then he slapped the inside of my elbow, searching for a vein.

"Make a fist," he muttered, his voice devoid of sympathy.

I looked past him to Floyd.

He was standing on the other side of the sterile room, holding Jaylah's hand. She was crying softly, her forehead resting against his shoulder.

He was stroking her hair, his lips moving near her ear.

It's going to be okay. I've got this. I'll save her.

He was offering her the very comfort he had denied me while he watched his men beat me into submission.

The needle pierced my skin.

It was a thick gauge, designed for rapid flow. I flinched, a small, ragged gasp escaping my lips as the steel invaded my vein.

Floyd didn't even turn around.

I watched the clear tube turn dark crimson.

My blood.

My life.

It flowed out of me, cycled through the machine, and pumped directly into the arm of the woman lying on the adjacent table.

I felt the drain almost immediately.

I was already weak from the cold and days of starvation. The sudden loss of volume hit me like a physical blow.

The room began to spin.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to stretch and blur, creating halos that hurt my eyes.

"Doctor," I mumbled, the word feeling thick on my tongue. "I feel dizzy."

"Keep squeezing your hand," Floyd commanded from across the room. His voice was sharp, cutting through the haze. "Don't stop."

He wasn't worried about me fainting. He was only worried the flow would slow down.

I squeezed.

My fingers felt like lead, disconnected from my body.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, heavy and suffocating.

My vision started to tunnel. The edges of the room turned to black smoke, encroaching on the center.

Through the narrowing aperture of my sight, I saw Floyd lean down and kiss Jaylah on the forehead.

He looked so strong. So vibrant. So alive.

And he was feeding off me.

He was draining me dry to keep his new life breathing.

"She's stabilizing," Dr. Evans announced, his eyes fixed on the Matriarch's monitor.

"Good," Floyd said, his tone flat. "Take another pint to be safe."

"Boss," Evans hesitated, glancing back at me. "The girl's pressure is dropping fast. She's barely ninety pounds soaking wet. Another pint might..."

"Did I ask for a medical opinion?" Floyd cut him off, ice in his voice. "Take it."

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to rip the needle out of my arm and run until my lungs burned.

But I couldn't move.

My limbs felt like they belonged to a corpse. The cold was spreading up my arm, seeping into my chest, freezing my lungs.

My heart fluttered.

It was a terrifying sensation, like a bird trapped in a cage that had suddenly become too small.

Thump... thump... thump...

Slower.

Weaker.

I closed my eyes.

A single tear leaked out, sliding hot against my cooling skin and into my ear.

I realized then that I was dying.

Not dramatically. Not with a bang.

I was just fading away in a basement, being consumed by the people who were supposed to be my family.

The darkness rushed in, absolute and final.

The last thing I heard was the steady, strong beep of the Matriarch's heart monitor-powered by my stolen blood-while my own faded into silence.