Page 101 of Rescuing Ember

The elevator doors slide open silently, revealing a steel cage wrapped in luxury. Mirrors line three walls, multiplying our reflections infinitely—Wolfe’s immaculate suit, my borrowed elegance, a thousand versions of predator and prey stretching into forever.

“Beautiful things require sacrifice.” He pulls a key card from his breast pocket. The elevator hums to life and descends. “You understand that better than most.”

Numbers tick down on the display. 30… 25… 20… Each floor takes us deeper beneath the glittering facade of his empire. The air grows colder and heavier.

“Your previous life, selling candles on street corners, is beneath you.” His cold gaze meets mine in the mirror. “I’m offering you greatness. Power. Everything you never dared dream of.”

15… 10… 5…

The temperature drops just as quickly as the elevator. My skin prickles, remembering other cold places, other cages.

“Of course, power requires precision. Control.” His fingers trace my shoulder, following the line from my collarbone to my throat. “One wrong move, one slip…” His grip tightens fractionally. “Well, let’s just say Mr. Hawkins wouldn’t survive my disappointment.”

The elevator slows. Stops. B5.

Steel groans as the doors part, revealing a corridor that could have been transplanted from my nightmares. Industrial lights cast sickly shadows across concrete walls, and the antiseptic smell barely masks something darker underneath.

“Welcome,” Wolfe’s smile stretches wide, triumph gleaming in his eyes, “to where it all begins.”

Heavy doors line the corridor, each bearing a keypad lock. Our footsteps echo, a grim drumbeat counting down to something inevitable. At the end, a final door stands open, spilling harsh light into the hall.

“After you, little flame.” His hand slides to my neck, gentle but immovable. “Time to see what you’re capable of.”

Beyond the threshold, darkness gives way to rows of cells, and the real nightmare begins.

Darkness bleeds through the warehouse, casting long shadows across rows of metal tables. Girls huddle on thin mattresses in makeshift cells, their eyes vacant, spirits already broken. The air hangs thick with fear and despair, a familiar stench that turns my stomach.

“Your first lesson in selection.” Wolfe’s hand presses against my lower back, guiding me down the row. His touch burns through the silk blouse, a constant reminder of his control. “Tell me what you see.”

My heels click against the concrete, each step an echo of surrender. These girls…God, they’re so young. Faces blur together, a kaleidoscope of terror I recognize too well.

“This one.” He stops before a cell where a girl, maybe thirteen, glares up at us. Defiance radiates from her rigid spine and clenched fists. “What do you see, little flame?”

The girl’s eyes meet mine, a familiar fire burning there. My chest constricts. I was her once.

“She’s still fighting.” The words scrape my throat.

“Yes.” Pleasure drips from his voice. “And how would you break her?”

My blood turns to ice. This is the test—prove my loyalty or watch Blaze suffer.

Time. I need to buy more time.

“You don’t.” I force steel into my voice. “Not directly. She’ll resist, fight harder. Instead…” Bile rises, but I swallow it down. “Instead, you break the others in front of her. Make her watch helplessly until that fire turns to ash.”

It’s precisely what he’s doing to me, and damn if it isn’t effective.

Wolfe’s laughter sends chills down my spine. His fingers dig into my hip, possessive and proud. “Brilliant. You understand the psychology perfectly.” His breath ghosts across my ear. “You see? This is why you’re invaluable. You know their minds, their hearts.”

A guard approaches with a tablet in hand. “Sir, the new shipment?—”

“Not now.” Wolfe’s voice cracks like a whip. His grip tightens, fingernails biting through silk. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a lesson?”

The guard retreats, but not before I catch a flicker of fear in his eyes. Wolfe’s control is slipping—the measured facade cracking to reveal something darker, more unstable.

“Now, where were we?” He spins me to face him, his winter eyes fever-bright, unyielding. “Ah, yes. Selection.”

His thumb traces my lower lip, a mockery of tenderness that makes my skin crawl. I fight the urge to recoil, to tear myself away from his grip, but I know better—any sign of weakness would be a triumph for him.

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