Canaries don't need to remember how they ended up in cages. That was how I lived. My room sat on the highest floor of the Vance estate. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a black coastline with no end in sight. The windows didn't open. The glass was thick enough to stop bullets. And every thought of escape. Two Soldatos were always posted outside my door. The sound of their changing shifts had been my only clock for two years. I counted my days by their footsteps. Two men on day watch. Two men on night watch. A change every four hours. Damien Vance came three times a week. He would sit on the leather sofa across from me and look at me the way one looked at an expensive collectible. "My Canary isn't happy today." He lifted my chin with his knuckle. I had learned not to flinch. Flinching came with punishment. He would cut off my food for three days. Or turn off every light in the room and leave me alone all night in darkness deep enough to drown in. So I stopped flinching. I even learned to breathe quietly. Two years ago, I woke after a car accident with nothing in my head. No name. No home. Only a body covered in injuries, and a contract Damien placed in front of me. He told me he had bought me. He told me the outside world was dangerous. That there were people everywhere who wanted me dead. That this cage was the only safe place left. I believed him. Because I had nothing else to believe. A person who doesn't even know who she is has no right to be picky about the hand that pulls her from the water. That night, the word "safe" shattered into dust. First came the gunfire downstairs. One shot. Two. Then so many they blurred together, like someone had struck an entire box of matches at once. I shot up from bed, bare feet landing on cold marble. Then came the footsteps. Fast. Heavy. The kind of footsteps that climbed through blood. Closer. Closer. The door was kicked open. Splinters exploded across the floor. The hinges gave a dying groan. A man stood in the doorway. Black suit. White collar splattered with blood. The blood wasn't his. He still held a gun in his hand. Smoke curled from the barrel, and the scent of gunpowder poured through the broken doorway. The moment he saw me, his whole body went rigid. As if someone had driven a fist straight through his chest. "...Sera." His voice was hoarse. Shaking. Scraped from the deepest part of him. I backed into the corner until my spine hit the cold wall. I didn't know him. I was only afraid. Afraid until my fingertips went numb. Afraid until my ears rang. Afraid until even my scream got trapped in my throat. "Don't come any closer." My voice shook. He didn't listen. He dropped the gun. Metal struck marble with a sharp, brutal sound. Then he walked toward me. Step by step. His eyes were terrifyingly red, like he hadn't slept in countless nights. "Seraphina Moretti." He said each word slowly. "You are my wife." Wife. The word landed inside my empty mind without stirring a thing. But the name— Seraphina— It was like a red-hot needle driving straight into my skull. My temple throbbed. For half a second, an image flashed before my eyes. A silver bird pendant. A pair of cold eyes. A sentence that never made it out. Then it was gone. Only the blankness remained. That familiar blankness that had swallowed my entire past. I clutched my head, trembling all over as nausea rolled through me. He dropped to one knee in front of me. Only one step away. "I've been looking for you for two years." His voice broke. "Two years, Sera." I lifted my head and stared at this stranger. This bleeding man. There was something in his eyes I couldn't understand. Too much. So much it looked ready to spill over. I gathered every ounce of strength I had and asked the only question that mattered. "Who are you?" And in that instant, his face completely fell apart.