AMBER EYES, DEADLY LIES

HOPE IS DANGEROUS

DAISY'S POV

I don't want to look up.

Every instinct I've developed over twenty-two years of survival is screaming at me to stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible. But the command in that voice isn't something I can ignore, and disobedience in front of Uncle Raymond's guests would only make things worse.

So I look up.

The first thing I notice is that Sebastian Kindre is younger than I expected. Maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight at most. The second thing I notice is that he's staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight, like he's trying to read something written on my bones.

He's tall, easily over six feet, with dark brown hair that's slightly too long and looks like he doesn't spend much time worrying about it. His face is angular, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, but it's his eyes that hold my attention. They're hazel, shifting between green and gold depending on how the light hits them, and right now they're fixed on mine with an expression I can't decipher.

There are scars. One cutting through his left eyebrow, another along his jawline. They're old, faded to white, the kind of marks that come from real violence rather than accidents.

He's not handsome in the polished, magazine-cover way that Connor tries to cultivate. He's something rawer than that, more real, like he's been weathered by experiences that would break softer people.

"Stand up," he says, and his voice is quieter now, meant only for me.

My legs shake as I push myself to my feet. The cut on my palm throbs, and I'm acutely aware that I'm still holding b****y glass wrapped in the hem of my dress. I'm a mess, disheveled and bleeding and probably the most pathetic bride anyone has ever claimed.

Sebastian's eyes flicker to my hand, then back to my face. Something shifts in his expression, but it's gone before I can identify it.

"What's your name?"

The question catches me off guard. He came here asking for the girl with amber eyes, but he doesn't know my name. That should probably tell me something about this whole situation, but my brain feels like it's moving through mud.

"Daisy," I whisper, and my voice comes out rough from disuse. I don't talk much in this house. Talking invites attention, and attention invites punishment.

"Daisy," he repeats, testing it. Then, "I'm Sebastian Kindre. You've probably never heard of me."

I shake my head slightly. I haven't. But based on everyone's reactions, I should have.

Behind Sebastian, Uncle Raymond clears his throat loudly. "If you're quite finished with the introductions, perhaps we can discuss the terms of this arrangement. I assume you're not expecting to simply walk out of here with my niece without some negotiation."

Sebastian doesn't turn around. He's still looking at me, and there's something in his gaze that makes me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with physical vulnerability.

"There's nothing to negotiate," Sebastian says, his voice carrying across the room again. "The treaty was clear. You signed it. Your signature is legally binding. I'm not asking for your permission, Raymond. I'm informing you of my intention."

"She's not even a real Matty," Connor's voice cuts in, and I flinch at the venom in it. "Her mother was a disgrace, and she's just the bastard reminder of that disgrace. You're welcome to her."

I've heard worse from Connor over the years, but hearing it said so casually in front of a room full of people still stings. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to create some barrier between me and the world.

Sebastian's jaw tightens, and for a second I think he might turn around and do something violent. But he doesn't. Instead, he looks at me and asks, "Can you walk?"

I nod. My ankle hurts from where Connor shoved me earlier, but it's nothing I can't handle.

"Then we're leaving." He says it like it's simple, like there's no question about whether I want to go with him or not.

"Wait." The word comes out before I can stop it, barely more than a breath, but Sebastian hears it.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

I don't know what I'm trying to say. That I'm afraid? That I don't know him? That going with a stranger seems just as dangerous as staying here? All of those things are true, but they all sound stupid when I try to form them into words.

"You have a choice," Sebastian says, and his voice drops lower, soft enough that I think only I can hear it. "You can stay here with your family, or you can come with me. I'm not going to force you. But I need an answer now, because I'm not coming back."

A choice. He's offering me a choice.

I've never had a choice about anything in my entire life. Raymond decided where I lived, what I ate, what I wore, what I did with every hour of every day. Connor decided when I was worth tormenting and when I was beneath notice. The kitchen staff decided whether I got dinner or went to bed hungry. Everyone else decided that I wasn't worth acknowledging at all.

And now this stranger, this man I've known for less than five minutes, is telling me I get to decide.

I look past Sebastian at the room full of people watching this scene unfold like it's entertainment. I see Uncle Raymond with his cold calculation, already mentally writing me off as a loss he can afford. I see Connor with his cruel smirk, probably thrilled that someone else is going to take responsibility for the family embarrassment. I see the guests with their curious stares and judgmental whispers, seeing me as nothing more than a curiosity, a story they'll tell at their next dinner party.

Then I look back at Sebastian, at this scarred stranger with his impossible offer.

The smart thing would be to stay. At least here, I know the rules. I know how to survive Uncle Raymond's moods and Connor's cruelty. I know which floorboards creak, which doors lock from the outside, which corners of the house are safest to hide in when things get bad.

Going with Sebastian means stepping into complete unknown territory. He could be worse than Raymond. He could be a thousand times worse. I have no idea what he wants from me or why he's really here.

But when I look into those shifting hazel eyes, I don't see cruelty. I see something tired and guarded and maybe a little bit desperate, but not cruel.

And desperate is something I understand.

I take a step forward, closing the distance between us. My hand is still bleeding, soaking through the gray fabric of my dress, and I'm shaking so hard I'm surprised I can stand at all. But I take the step.

"I'll go with you," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected.

Something flickers across Sebastian's face. Relief, maybe, or surprise. He holds out his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand.

I look at my own hand, at the blood and the glass wrapped in fabric, and shake my head slightly. "I'll ruin your jacket."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite. "I don't care about the jacket."

I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and solid, and for just a second I feel something strange. It's not quite recognition, more like an echo of something I should remember but don't, a sense that this moment matters in ways I can't possibly understand yet.

"Let's go," Sebastian says, and he doesn't let go of my hand as he turns toward the door.

Uncle Raymond starts saying something about paperwork and legal documentation, but Sebastian ignores him completely. People move out of our way as we walk through the crowd, and I keep my eyes fixed on Sebastian's back, on the space between his shoulder blades, anywhere but the faces of the people watching us leave.

We're almost to the door when Connor's voice rings out one last time.

"You'll regret this, Kindre. That thing you're taking isn't worth the trouble she'll cause."

Sebastian stops. For a horrible second, I think he's reconsidering, that Connor's words have made him realize what a mistake he's making.

But then Sebastian looks back over his shoulder, and his voice is ice when he speaks.

"Her name is Daisy. And the next time you refer to her as anything less than a person, you and I are going to have a very different kind of conversation."

He doesn't wait for a response. We walk out the door, leaving behind the only home I've ever known, and I have no idea if I've just made the best decision of my life or the worst.

The night air hits my face, cool and sharp, and for the first time in fifteen years, I'm outside the Matty mansion grounds without permission.

I'm terrified.

But I'm also, impossibly, a tiny bit hopeful.

And hope, I'm learning, is the most dangerous thing of all.