The Golden Cage

Waking up in Blackwood Manor was like waking up inside a jewelry box that had been buried underground.

The air was cool, scented with lavender and old paper. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the windows, blocking out the Nevada sun.

Clara lay in a massive four-poster bed, submerged in silk sheets. Her body still ached, but the sharp, stabbing pain was duller now. Someone had bandaged her ribs. Someone had cleaned the blood from her face.

"Drink."

Silas was sitting in a chair by the bedside. He was watching her. He hadn't moved. He hadn't blinked.

He held out a crystal goblet. It wasn't blood—it was water, cool and clear.

Clara sat up slowly, wincing. Silas was there instantly, his hand supporting her back. His touch was freezing, but gentle. So gentle.

She drank greedily.

"I thought I dreamed you," she whispered, handing the glass back.

"I am the only real thing in this world, Clara," Silas said. He set the glass down and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the mattress, trapping her. "Why did you run?"

It was the question that had hung between them for five years.

Clara looked down at the silk quilt. "You scared me, Silas. You looked at me like... like you wanted to eat me."

"I wanted to keep you," Silas corrected. His voice was thick with five years of silence. "I wanted to turn you. To stop your heart so it would never stop beating."

"I was seventeen," Clara said. "I wanted a life. A husband. Children. The sun."

Silas laughed bitterly. "And how did the sun treat you, my love? Did it keep you warm? Or did it burn you until you were ash?"

He reached out and touched the bruise on her cheek. His eyes darkened.

"I watched you," he admitted. "For five years. Every night. I stood outside that cabin and listened to you breathe. I wanted to tear the roof off. I wanted to drain that man dry."

"Why didn't you?" Clara asked.

"Because you chose him," Silas said. The regret in his voice was a physical weight. "I realized... I had pushed you away. I was a monster, Clara. I tried to cage a bird that wanted to fly. So I let you fly."

He stood up and paced the room, his movements jagged with self-loathing.

"And look what happened," he spat. "I let you fly, and you flew straight into a thresher. I should have clipped your wings. I should have locked you in this tower and thrown away the key. You would have hated me, but you would have been *safe*."

Clara watched him. This was the madness she had feared. The possessive, consuming darkness.

But she remembered the Sheriff’s boot. She remembered the sound of the cylinder spinning.

"I'm here now," Clara said softly.

Silas stopped pacing. He looked at her with a hunger that made her breath hitch.

"Yes," he said. "You are. And you are never leaving again."

He walked to the door. "Rest. The sun is up. The house is sealed. No one can get in."

"Silas?"

He paused.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Silas didn't smile. He looked at her with tragic, ancient eyes. "Don't thank the jailer, Clara. Just eat your soup."

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