"A ritual without intention is like a flame without fire."
{ROXANNE'S POV}
I didn't know how many hours had passed, but one thing was certain—I was close to waking up. What had even happened? Ah, I remembered. Michael had struck me on the neck, knocking me unconscious, promising my pack he wouldn't kill me. By now, I should have been back with them—but reality quickly dismissed that hope.
My eyelids fluttered open, and as they did, I took in my surroundings. I was lying on a bed. Several meters away, a table and chair were positioned neatly. Above me, a ceiling fan spun lazily, just beneath a dim yellow bulb. The walls were painted white, adorned with a few scattered paintings.
Where was I?
Light streamed into the room—it was daylight.
Suddenly, someone cleared their throat. Who could it be? Who else but Michael? The moment the thought crossed my mind, my heart began to race. This man was dangerous—crazy, even. I turned my attention to the corner of the room, and there he was. He stood with the sole of his right shoe pressed against the wall, his left planted firmly on the ground. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was locked onto me.
"Welcome to my haven, dear Roxanne," his raspy voice echoed. As I met his gaze, I saw it—his eyes were completely void of emotion.
I looked down at my hands—they weren't chained. Did he not see the need to restrain me, or was it something else? Slowly, I rose from the bed, my eyes locked on him, alert for any sudden move. Once I was fully upright, I met his gaze with a cautious glare and asked, "What exactly do you want with me?"
I glanced around, searching for an escape route—even though I knew the chances of getting out were slim. There was a door right beside him, but that was a no-go. A window stood a few paces away—not near him, but not far enough to be unnoticed. I glanced through it, but I couldn't see the ground, which meant we were high up. This wasn't the lowest floor.
I had no idea what the building's structure was like. I'd need to get closer to the window to find out. What if this floor was high up? Breaking through the glass could mean shattering my legs, and that kind of injury would take time to heal—time he'd use to capture me again. I had to be smart. First, assess the layout. And to do that, I needed a distraction.
He still hadn't answered my question.
I shot him a glare. "Won't you talk?"
He suddenly smiled, and I hated him even more for it. This was the man who had humiliated my pack just last night.
As if reading my thoughts, he spoke. "This is the third floor. You wouldn't be gravely injured if you broke through the window. But the problem isn't the fall—it's what comes after. I'll catch you, no matter what move you make. So, why not be civil?"
His words unsettled me. Had he actually read my thoughts, or was it just a coincidence? I didn't even have time to explore the possibility before he continued.
"As for what I want with you," he said, his tone turning serious, "I suppose I should be straightforward. Don't think I captured you on a whim—no. It's because you're an important ingredient."
As he spoke, a sinister smile spread across his lips.
That word—"ingredient"—shocked me, sending a wave of fear through me. What did he mean by that? I forced myself to stay calm and pressed him for answers.
"What do you mean by ingredient, Michael?"
He lowered the sole of his right shoe to the floor and unfolded his arms, then began walking toward me—each step accompanied by a few measured words.
"The voices in my head want me to keep you close until the time is right. You're one of the ingredients I need for a ritual. In fact, you're the main ingredient. Once the others are gathered, that's when you'll become useful. Until then, you stay with me."
My heart pounded faster than ever, and the blood surged through my veins with terrifying intensity. Ritual? What kind of ritual was he talking about?
Rituals were magical acts, and only warlocks could perform them. But warlocks were notoriously unstable and nearly impossible to reach. Even if he had somehow managed to find one, striking a deal would've been nearly impossible—the price they demanded was always outrageous. Besides, they lived in secrecy, tucked away in the most obscure corners of the world.
"What exactly do the voices in your head want?" I asked, my voice trembling. I stepped back instinctively, but my legs bumped into the bed—my silent reminder that I had nowhere else to go.
"So far, they've made me strong. They want me to become even stronger." He shrugged. "Honestly, I don't even know what you are. You should be a werewolf, but what significance could you possibly have in a ritual? Still, the voices insist you're not ordinary."
He let out a short, mocking laugh before continuing. "Anyway, that's why I struck a deal with a warlock. She'll be here soon. The deal doesn't concern you—at least, not for now. But it wouldn't hurt to ask her a few questions."
"Does this ritual involve killing me?" I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear him say it. "And how certain are you that I'm important? Do you even believe the voices?"
"Don't act stupid," he snapped. "We both know I'm no ordinary werewolf. The voices in my head, they must've driven me mad. Yes, I'm crazy now—and even if I wanted to fight it, my body wouldn't obey. So I have no choice but to go with the flow."
He paused, his expression unreadable.
"I don't even know if I'm enjoying this chaos or not. But one thing's certain—I can't go back to being the old Michael. The voices. I can hear them even now." His eyes darkened, turning pitch black—a chilling reminder of his descent into madness.
"They say you're special. The key to this ritual. The major ingredient. And they're not lying. I can feel it."
Even his voice had changed—distorted, layered, as though multiple people were speaking through him.
Fear gripped my heart, making me tremble uncontrollably. "What ritual are you talking about, exactly, Michael?" I asked, my voice wavering.
"You don't need to know—at least, not yet. Just take a seat. She'll be here soon." He began walking toward me slowly, and my heart raced with every step. As I tried to retreat, I was reminded of the bed behind me, and I stumbled back into it.
He watched me with an almost curious gaze, then sat on the bed beside me, completely unconcerned with my awkward position.
I looked at him—wasn't he even moved by my voluptuous figure? But I quickly pushed that thought aside; I had more pressing matters to focus on. How could I escape this building? Would I really just wait until I was slaughtered?
Without hesitation, I acted on instinct—a reckless habit of mine. I never thought things through, just acted as soon as the idea crossed my mind. I slapped my palms against the bed and, with a fluid backflip, landed on the other side. Without a second thought, I bolted toward the window, ready to take a leap of faith, unconcerned with the consequences.
As I moved, I noticed he didn't react—almost as if he wasn't worried. Where was his confidence coming from?
I approached the window with all the speed and agility I could muster. This was it—the moment I'd break free. The feeling reminded me of when I'd escaped Seth's room. But this time, it wouldn't be that simple.
Just as I collided with the window, I realized it wasn't glass I hit—it was something else. A magical barrier. The moment I struck it, a force slammed me backward, sending a jolt through my body that rattled my insides. The pain was blinding, and I screamed in agony. I hit the ground, my organs feeling as though they were being torn apart by the magic. Finally, the pain began to fade, and I slowly pulled myself to my feet.
There he sat, smiling faintly, shrugging his shoulders as though he hadn't just witnessed my attempt at escape.
Then, he spoke.
"I knew you'd make a move. That's why I didn't bother to tell you this room is coated with magic—ensuring no ordinary person can enter or leave without the permission of the warlock."
I felt a flicker of amusement. Ordinary person? Was he implying I was weak, incapable of escaping, but he could? To confirm my thoughts, I asked, "If I'm right, this is the Sheddai of the warlocks. A powerful spell designed to trap a person. Are you saying it's not strong enough to hold you?"
"Why don't you guess?" His voice was cold, almost mocking. "Do you think I trust anyone enough to believe they wouldn't hurt me? I can't place my safety in the hands of a warlock."
His brown eyes had returned to normal, the blackness vanishing as if nothing had happened.
I slowly pushed myself off the ground, my gaze fixed on him. Was he as powerful as he claimed? The warlock he spoke of must have been here before I woke up—she likely cast Sheddai on the room, ensuring I couldn't escape, sparing Michael the effort of stopping me. Warlocks were eccentric, unpredictable beings. What had Michael offered her to gain such cooperation? The price must have been steep.