The warehouse felt less like a home and more like a tomb as Silas kicked open the heavy steel doors. The scent of old oil and cold concrete rushed out to meet them. He didn't offer Ivy a seat; he didn't offer her a drink of water. He walked straight to the center of the floor, his boots echoing with a lonely, hollow thud.
"Welcome to the 'zoo,' Princess," Silas spat, grabbing a pair of heavy chains and draping them over his neck. The metal rattled against his collarbone, a sound as grim as a funeral bell. He felt the familiar bite of cold iron against his skin, a sensation he'd grown to associate with punishment—both the kind he inflicted on himself and the kind others seemed eager to deliver.
"Since you're so fond of 'managing' my talent, you can manage the clock." His jaw tightened as
