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.

I woke up to the sharp, chemical tang of fresh blueprints and ammonia.

I wasn't in a hospital bed.

I was sitting at the drafting table in the estate's library, slumped over the wood.

My head was pounding so hard I thought my skull had fractured along the sutures. My arm throbbed where the needle had been, the puncture site wrapped in a crude bandage stippled with dried blood.

"Finally," a voice said.

I lifted my heavy head, fighting the gravity that tried to pull me back down.

Floyd was leaning against the heavy oak desk, a silhouette of casual cruelty.

He held a rolled-up set of plans in his hand, tapping them rhythmically against his thigh.

"You've been out for three hours. Wasting time."

He threw the plans onto my table. They unrolled with a snap, revealing the complex layout of a new casino complex on the waterfront.

"The structural supports for the underground vault are wrong," he said, his tone bored. "The city inspector is coming tomorrow. If this isn't fixed to hide the laundering room, they shut us down."

I blinked, trying to focus. The lines on the paper were swimming, refusing to stay still.

"Floyd... I can't," I whispered, my voice cracking. "My hands... I can't feel my hands."

He sighed.

It was a sound of suffering patience, as if I were the one being unreasonable.

He reached under the desk and pulled something up.

It was a crate.

Inside was Sunny.

My golden retriever. The dog I had raised since she was a puppy. The only living thing in this house that looked at me with love instead of calculation.

Floyd pulled a gun from his waistband.

He didn't point it at me.

He pointed it at the crate.

"Sunny has been barking all morning," he said casually. "It's giving me a headache."

My heart stopped in my chest.

"No," I gasped. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled, useless as water. "Floyd, don't. Please."

"Fix the plans, Elizebeth," he said. He clicked the safety off-a dry, mechanical sound that echoed in the silence. "Every mistake you make is a reason for me to pull this trigger."

I grabbed a pencil.

My fingers were stiff claws, uncooperative and alien. I gripped the wood so hard it snapped in two.

I grabbed another one.

I started to draw.

I drew through the tears blurring my vision. I drew through the violent shaking of my body.

I corrected the load-bearing walls. I hid the vault behind the ventilation shafts, my mind operating on pure adrenaline and terror.

I worked for two hours, terrified to look up, terrified to hear the deafening bang.

"Done," I sobbed, dropping the pencil. "It's done."

Floyd stepped forward and checked the plans.

He nodded.

"See? You just needed motivation."

He holstered the gun.

"Tea is being served on the terrace. Bring the plans. Jaylah wants to see where her new office will be."

I followed him like a ghost.

My legs dragged, heavy as lead.

We went out to the terrace. The heaters were blasting, glowing orange against the winter grey, fighting a losing battle against the biting wind.

Jaylah and her recovering mother were sitting at the iron table.

A silver tea service was laid out, gleaming in the dull light.

There was a brazier of hot coals nearby, keeping the area warm.

I placed the plans on the table.

"Here," I said.

Jaylah looked at me. She smiled, but her eyes were dead-two chips of ice.

She stood up, pretending to reach for the sugar.

As she moved, her foot lashed out.

She kicked my shin, hard.

I stumbled forward, my balance already compromised.

My hip hit the table with a jarring thud.

The teapot wobbled and tipped over.

Scalding hot Earl Grey splashed onto the Matriarch's lap.

The woman screamed.

"You little bitch!" Jaylah shrieked.

She turned to Floyd, her face twisted in fake horror.

"She attacked her! She tried to burn my mother!"

Floyd's face went dark.

He looked at the Matriarch, who was wailing, and then at me.

"I didn't..." I started, panic rising in my throat. "She kicked me..."

"Enough!" Floyd roared.

He grabbed me by the throat.

He lifted me off my feet, slamming me back against the stone railing. The impact knocked the wind out of me.

"I take your blood to save her, and you try to burn her?" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "You are a snake, Elizebeth. A poisonous, ungrateful snake."

"Floyd, look at me!" I choked out, clawing at his hand. "It's a lie!"

He didn't see me.

He only saw the insult to his power.

"You like fire?" he asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "You want to burn things?"

He dragged me toward the brazier.

The coals were glowing red hot. The heat radiating from them scorched my face, drying the tears on my cheeks instantly.

"Jaylah says you don't deserve hands that create art if you use them to hurt family," Floyd said.

He forced me toward the coals.

"Admit you did it on purpose," he demanded. "Admit it, or I bring your mother here and I put her hands in this fire instead."

My blood ran cold.

My mother. She was in a nursing home paid for by the Meyers trust. He could get to her in ten minutes.

I looked at the coals.

I looked at my hands. The hands that drew. The hands that built. The hands that were my only ticket out of this hell.

"Leave her out of this," I whispered.

"Admit it!"

"I did it!" I screamed, my voice raw. "I did it! I wanted to burn her!"

Floyd released my neck.

"Punishment," Jaylah said softly from behind him, her voice silky with satisfaction. "An eye for an eye."

Floyd looked at me.

"Do it," he said.

He pointed to the coals.

"Put them in. Or I call the boys to pick up your mother."

I looked at him one last time.

I engraved his face into my memory. Not to love him. But to remember the face of the devil so I would never forget who to hate.

I took a deep breath.

And I plunged my hands into the fire.