AMBER EYES, DEADLY LIES

HOPE HURTS

DAISY'S POV

The room Iris shows me to is nothing like I expected.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to laugh and tell me this is all a joke before dragging me down to whatever version of a basement they have here. But Iris just keeps walking, chattering about the building's history and how they converted it five years ago, and then she's opening a door on the second floor and gesturing me inside like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"This is yours," she says, grinning. "What do you think?"

I think I'm going to be sick.

The room has windows. Actual windows that aren't barred or painted over, with sheer curtains that let in the glow from the streetlights outside. There's a real bed, not a cot or a mattress on the floor, with a thick comforter and multiple pillows. A small desk sits against one wall, and there's even a bookshelf, empty but waiting.

"The bathroom is through there," Iris continues, pointing to a door I hadn't noticed. "You've got your own shower, which is honestly better than most of us. Sebastian wanted you to have privacy while you adjust."

Privacy. The word feels foreign in my mouth, like something from a language I used to speak but have forgotten.

I take a tentative step into the room, half expecting the floor to give way beneath me or for someone to appear and tell me I'm not allowed. But nothing happens. The room just exists, solid and real and apparently mine.

"I know it's a lot to process," Iris says, her voice gentler now. "But you're safe here. I promise."

I want to believe her. The desperate, stupid part of me that's been starved for kindness wants to believe her so badly it hurts. But promises are easy to make and easier to break, and I've learned not to trust them.

"Let me see your hand," Iris says, and before I can protest, she's gently taking my injured palm and examining the cut. She frowns. "It's not too deep, but it needs to be cleaned properly. Stay here, I'll grab the first aid kit."

She leaves before I can tell her not to bother, that I've dealt with worse injuries on my own plenty of times. The door closes behind her, and I'm alone in this too-nice room with its windows and its actual bed.

I move to the window, careful not to touch anything else, and look out at the waterfront. From here, I can see parts of the community Sebastian mentioned. People are still out despite the late hour, walking between buildings or gathered in small groups talking. There's a warmth to it, a sense of casual belonging that I've never experienced.

A soft knock makes me jump. "It's just me," Iris calls through the door.

I open it to find her holding a white plastic box with a red cross on it. She comes in and gestures toward the bed. "Sit. This might sting a bit."

I sit on the very edge of the mattress, trying not to think about how soft it is, and hold out my hand. Iris works efficiently, cleaning the cut with antiseptic that does indeed sting, then applying butterfly bandages to hold the edges together.

"You're good at this," I say, because the silence feels like it needs filling.

"I've had practice. People here get hurt sometimes. Nothing serious usually, just occupational hazards of living in old industrial buildings and doing manual labor." She finishes wrapping my hand in gauze and tape. "There. Good as new. Well, almost."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." She starts putting supplies back in the first aid kit, then pauses. "So, Daisy. That's a pretty name."

I don't know how to respond to that. No one's ever called my name pretty before.

"Do you have any questions? About this place, or Sebastian, or anything really?"

I have about a thousand questions, but I don't know which ones are safe to ask. In Raymond's house, asking questions was dangerous. It implied you thought you deserved information, deserved to understand what was happening around you.

"What does Sebastian want from me?" The question comes out before I can stop it.

Iris's expression shifts, becomes more guarded. "I think that's something you should ask him directly."

Which means she knows something but isn't allowed to tell me. Or doesn't trust me enough to tell me. Both possibilities are equally likely.

"Is he..." I struggle to find the right words. "Is he like Raymond?"

"God, no." Iris's response is immediate and emphatic. "Sebastian can be intense, and he's got his own issues to work through, but he's nothing like your uncle. He actually cares about people."

I want to believe that too. But caring about people in general is different from caring about me specifically, and I'm not naive enough to confuse the two.

"My brother doesn't trust you," Iris says suddenly. "Marcus, I mean. He thinks bringing you here was a mistake."

The honesty catches me off guard. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you should know what you're walking into. Some people here are going to be suspicious of you because of who your uncle is. They're going to watch you, looking for signs that you're reporting back to Raymond or setting us up somehow." She meets my eyes. "Are you?"

"No." The answer is automatic and true. Whatever else is uncertain right now, that much is clear. "I never want to see Raymond or Connor again for as long as I live."

Iris studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "I believe you. But you're going to have to prove it to everyone else."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. Just... be yourself, I guess. Let people get to know you. It'll take time."

Time. As if I have any of that, as if I'm not living on borrowed moments until Sebastian realizes what a mistake he made and sends me back or throws me out or whatever it is people do with unwanted things they've collected.

Iris stands, first aid kit in hand. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be intense. Sebastian will want to talk to you, and Marcus is probably going to interrogate you about your uncle's security measures and business operations."

Panic flares in my chest. "I don't know anything about that. Raymond never told me anything important."

"Then tell them that. Just be honest." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Daisy? The door doesn't lock from the outside. You can leave whenever you want. You're not a prisoner here."

She leaves before I can respond, and I'm alone again in this room that's supposedly mine.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, trying to process everything that's happened in the last few hours. This morning, I woke up in the basement of Raymond's mansion, expecting another day of invisibility and survival. Now I'm sitting in a room with windows and privacy, in a community of strangers, claimed by a man I don't know for reasons no one will explain.

Eventually, exhaustion wins over anxiety. I lie down on top of the comforter, not quite ready to actually get under the covers, not quite ready to accept that this comfort might be real.

Sleep doesn't come easily. Every sound in the building makes me tense, waiting for footsteps coming toward my door, for someone to remember I don't belong here. But nothing happens. The building settles into quiet, and gradually, my body relaxes.

I'm almost asleep when I hear it. Voices, muffled but urgent, coming from somewhere below my room. I can't make out words, but I recognize the tones: Sebastian's low and controlled, and another man's voice, probably Marcus, raised in anger or frustration.

They're arguing about something. About me, most likely.

I should ignore it, should roll over and try to sleep. But curiosity is a dangerous thing, especially when you've spent your whole life being kept in the dark about everything that affects you.

I slip off the bed and move to the door, opening it as quietly as possible. The hallway is empty and dim, lit only by emergency lighting along the baseboards. I follow the sound of voices, moving carefully, until I'm standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor.

"...can't trust her, Sebastian. You know we can't." That's definitely Marcus.

"I'm not asking you to trust her. I'm asking you to give her a chance."

"A chance to do what? Spy on us? Report everything back to Raymond? He let her go too easily. You have to see that's suspicious."

"Or maybe he let her go because he genuinely doesn't care about her. Did you see the state she was in? They were starving her, Marcus."

There's a pause, and I hold my breath.

"That could all be part of the setup," Marcus says, but he sounds less certain now. "Make her look sympathetic, make you feel protective, get her inside our walls."

"You think Raymond is that calculating? That he'd a***e his own niece for years just on the off chance I'd eventually invoke a treaty clause to claim her?"

"I think Raymond Matty is capable of anything if it serves his interests."

He's not wrong about that. But he is wrong about me being part of some elaborate scheme. Raymond didn't plan for Sebastian to show up tonight. I saw the surprise on his face, the genuine shock when Sebastian named me specifically.

"Sophie said—" Sebastian starts.

"Sophie isn't here right now to explain what she meant. And until she is, we're operating blind."

"Then we operate carefully. Watch Daisy if you need to. Monitor her communications, track her movements, whatever makes you feel better. But we're not throwing her out, and we're not sending her back."

"You're letting your feelings cloud your judgment."

"Maybe. Or maybe for once I'm letting myself trust that there's more going on here than just politics and power plays."

Footsteps approach the stairs, and I realize too late that I should have gone back to my room. I turn to run, but my injured ankle gives out and I stumble, catching myself on the wall with an audible thump.

The conversation below stops immediately.

"Someone's up there," Marcus says.

Footsteps on the stairs, moving fast. I don't have time to hide or pretend I wasn't listening. Sebastian appears at the top of the landing, and our eyes meet.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then his expression shifts into something I can't quite read.

"How much did you hear?" he asks.

I could lie. Should lie, probably. But Iris said to be honest, and besides, I'm terrible at lying.

"Enough to know Marcus thinks I'm a spy."

Sebastian's jaw tightens. "Come downstairs. We need to talk."

It's not a request, and I'm in no position to refuse. I follow him down to where Marcus is waiting, and the expression on Marcus's face tells me that this conversation is going to be even worse than I feared.

But as I descend the stairs toward an uncertain future, one thought keeps circling through my mind: at least they're talking about me instead of around me. At least someone thinks I'm important enough to argue over, even if it's just to debate whether I'm dangerous.

It's more acknowledgment than I've received in years.

And somehow, that makes whatever comes next feel almost bearable.