Chapter 4: The Reckless Shift

"You shouldn't have touched that drawer, Raffy. Now, you won’t even have the hallway to walk through."

Ignatius’s voice grated against the silence of the guest house. He stood by the window, the moon carving sharp, cruel angles into his face. He’d spent the last three days stripping the room bare. The books were gone. The television, gone. Even the extra pillows. He wanted a void. He wanted me to have nothing to look at but my own reflection in the window glass until I begged for his presence.

I sat on the edge of the stripped mattress. My hands stayed folded in my lap. I didn't sign. I didn't plead. I didn't even look up when he paced past me, his leather shoes clicking like a countdown.

Silence is a wall, I realized. If he couldn't hear my heart through my hands, he couldn't own the rhythm.

"Nothing? Not even a 'sorry' on your fingers?" Ignatius stopped, his jaw tight. He reached out, grabbing a handful of my hair and forcing my head back. "I made you. I can unmake you just as fast. You’re a mute stray I picked out of the gutter. Without me, Miller would have sold you by the pound."

I stared through him. I focused on the pulse jumping in his neck. He was losing. The more he shouted, the more I saw the cracks in the "Saint." He wasn't a god. He was just a man with a checkbook and a fragile ego.

"Fine," he snapped, shoving my head away. "If you want to be a doll, I’ll treat you like one. My father is hosting the winter gala tonight. You’re coming. You’ll wear what I tell you. You’ll stand where I put you. And if you make a single sound, I’ll make sure Leo never breathes fresh air again."

The transformation happened in a blur of cold silk and suffocating ties. Ignatius dressed me in a suit that cost more than my life, a deep charcoal that made my skin look like bruised parchment. He cinched the waistcoat until I could barely draw a breath.

The gala was a sea of predatory smiles and clinking crystal. The Thorne estate—the real one, the mansion—smelled of lilies and old money. Ignatius kept his hand locked around my bicep, his fingers digging into the muscle whenever someone looked our way.

"Keep your head down," he hissed into my ear, his breath hot and smelling of scotch. "You’re the tragic little ward. Don't ruin the image."

Then, the crowd parted.

A man stood at the end of the hall. He looked like an older, more carved version of Ignatius, but his eyes were different. They weren't stormy; they were dead. Cold. Cane Thorne. The man who taught Ignatius how to hunt.

"Ignatius," Cane said, his voice a low rumble that silenced the nearby guests. "I see you brought your... acquisition."

Ignatius’s grip on my arm turned agonizing. "He’s my ward, Father. We’ve discussed this."

"A ward you keep under lock and key? You always were greedy with your toys." Cane stepped closer, ignoring his son entirely. He looked at me, his gaze stripping away the expensive suit and the forced posture. "The boy looks like he’s drowning. Do you even feed him, or do you just let him choke on your shadow?"

Ignatius’s knuckles turned white. "He’s fine. He doesn't need your input."

"He needs someone who knows how to handle high-strung things," Cane countered, a smirk ghosting his lips. "You always did have a heavy hand. It’s why your mother left. It’s why you’ll lose everything I built."

The tension between them was a physical weight, a thin wire pulled until it frayed. Ignatius wasn't a king here. He was a child trying to prove he was a man.

I looked at Cane. He was a monster, too. I could see it in the way he looked at the guests—like they were chess pieces. But he hated Ignatius. He wanted to humiliate him.

A reckless, burning thought ignited in my chest. To kill a predator, you don't run. You find a bigger jaw.

I waited until Ignatius turned his head to snap at a passing waiter. I let my knees buckle, just a fraction. I let my eyes well up, making them wide and glassy. I leaned away from Ignatius, intentionally stumbling toward Cane, my hand reaching out as if to steady myself on his sleeve.

I let my fingers graze Cane’s wrist—a silent, desperate signal of distress. I made sure he saw the bruise Ignatius’s thumb had left on my jaw earlier.

Cane’s eyes sharpened. He saw the mark. He saw the terror I was faking. A slow, dark grin spread across his face. He reached out, catching my elbow before Ignatius could pull me back.

"Careful, boy," Cane murmured, his voice loud enough for the surrounding elite to hear. "You’re shaking. Is my son making you uncomfortable?"

Ignatius froze. The color drained from his face as the room went silent.

"Raffy, get over here," Ignatius commanded, his voice trembling with a lethal mixture of embarrassment and rage.

Cane didn't let go. He pulled me closer to his side, his hand a cold weight on my arm. "I think the boy stays with me for the rest of the evening. You clearly can’t be trusted with fragile things."

Cane looked down at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. He didn't want to save me. He wanted to take Ignatius’s favorite thing.

"Tell me, Rafferty," Cane whispered, leaning down. "How much do you hate him?"