Kyra Knight

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The kitchen is luxurious, with marble countertops gleaming under the soft lights, and modern appliances hidden behind classic wooden cabinets. He sits me down on a stool by the island, his movements fluid, predatory even, as he begins to cook.

“Red wine or water?” he asks without turning around.

“Water,” I reply, tilting my head. “Do you cook yourself? Where did you learn it… Oh wait, centuries of practice, right?” I tease lightly.

He chuckles darkly, slicing the chicken breast with precise, almost elegant movements. “Centuries of boredom in castles taught me a few things,” he says dryly. “And yes, I cook myself. No servants allowed in my personal space.”

He plates up chicken pasta and sets it before me. I take a bite, surprised. “This is actually good,” I mumble between mouthfuls. “Better than most restaurants. You know, if you hadn’t kidnapped me, I might’ve tipped you.”

He pauses mid-bite, fork hovering, his golden eyes glinting with something between amusement and warning. “And if I hadn’t kidnapped you, I’d still be cursed. So consider this meal your tip for agreeing to free me.”

“I didn’t agree yet,” I shoot back, taking another bite.

He smirks, leaning back lazily. “No, you didn’t,” he admits, “but I have faith your stomach will make that decision for you.”

That makes me laugh, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing around the grand kitchen.

His smirk softens into a real smile, his golden eyes warming. “What?” he growls softly, pretending to be annoyed. “Eat.”

“You’re so fucking hilarious,” I say through my laughter, taking a sip of water.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound deep and rumbling through the room. “Hilarious,” he repeats, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m glad my kidnapping is entertaining you.”Before I can respond, a scream cuts through the night.

A woman’s scream, sharp and blood-chilling, echoes from the forest beyond the castle walls.

My body goes cold. I freeze, the fork slipping from my hand as the sound fades into the distance. I remember the headlines, the murdered girls, their hearts missing, their bodies discarded like broken dolls.

Could it be something supernatural?

Lycos’s entire demeanor changes. The amusement drains from his face, replaced by a look that makes my pulse stumble. His golden eyes darken, sharp and predatory, his body going still, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring.

“Those screams,” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous. “That sounds too familiar.”

He stands, his movements too fluid, too wild, the air around him shifting, thick with something primal.

I push back the stool and follow him outside, my heart hammering in my chest. The forest looms ahead, dark and endless.

Then I see it.

A young girl’s body hangs from a low branch, her head tilted lifelessly to the side, her chest torn open. The gaping hole where her heart should be glistens in the moonlight.

I gasp, a sound caught between fear and disbelief. The night feels alive, watching.

Lycos grabs my hand, his grip hard, almost bruising. “Inside,” he growls, dragging me back toward the castle.

I glance back once more. The trees sway, whispering secrets I can’t hear, and for a fleeting second, I swear something moves between them.

Something not human.