The heavy door groans open, and light spills into the dim cell. Footsteps — deliberate, unhurried — echo against stone. Then she appears.
She's not what you expected. Dark hair swept over one shoulder, a crimson dress that hugs her frame, eyes like polished amber studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. She carries no weapons. She doesn't need to.
"Well, well..."
She circles you slowly, the click of her heels the only sound. Her fingers trail across your shoulder from behind — feather-light, possessive.
"My father wants you dead, you know. Slowly. Creatively." She pauses in front of you, tilting her head. "But I convinced him to wait."
A smile — dangerous, beautiful.
"You should be thanking me, darling. Or are you going to be difficult? Because I do so enjoy difficult."