All she could feel was pain.

Not the sharp, fleeting kind. No, this was deep, slow, insidious. A suffering that had settled into her bones, wrapped around her nerves, gnawed at her from the inside out.

Starvation.

For two weeks, Dr. Whitmore had withheld everything. No experiments. No blood. Just the slow, agonizing descent into nothingness.

Her body wasn't just weak—it was shutting down. Her veins were dry, her skin like paper stretched too thin. Every breath was a laborious task, a sharp pull against ribs that felt hollow. She wasn't dying, not really. That would have been a mercy. Instead, she was decaying, trapped in a state of perpetual suffering.

Enzo wasn't doing much better.

For days, neither of them had moved. They lay on the cold concrete, barely breathing, eyes half-lidded as they stared at one another through the bars. Speech was beyond them. Even breathing felt like work.

She drifted in and out of painful consciousness, her body in some half-alive state, barely tethered to reality. Any plan they had discussed about the New Years party felt like a foggy, distant memory. Any hope she felt before was long gone. There was absolutely no way, even under the best circumstances, they'd have the strength to escape.

When the guards finally came for them, she was – for the first time – past the point of any resistance. Their bodies wouldn't move. Their muscles had atrophied. The only sound was the scrape of steel against steel as the cell doors groaned open.

Luciana whimpered against the rough hands lifting her, shackling her wrists and ankles with impossibly heavy iron. Then, something cold pressed against her lips – a syringe? – and a warm trickle.

Blood.

A miniscule amount, but enough to rattle her nerves awake, to solidify her in consciousness. The rush of it hit her like fire, just enough to snap her back into herself but not enough to truly give her strength.

Her vision wavered as they forced her forward. The world felt unreal, like she was walking through a thick, oppressive fog.

And then she felt him.

Enzo was shackled beside her, stumbling just as she was, his body just as frail. She turned her head sluggishly, eyes meeting his.

He looked worse than she'd ever seen him, and still impossibly handsome.

The next thing she knew, they were shackled together, marched forward, their legs barely cooperating. The walk was a blur of stone corridors, barking orders, the cold bite of steel at her wrists and ankles. Then a sharp shove. A sudden jolt.

And then, him.

She was inside a cage.

With Enzo.

For the first time since they'd met, there was nothing between them. No iron, no distance.

For a moment, the hunger, the exhaustion, the reality of their situation—all of it faded.

He was taller than she realized, having only seen him at a distance. The top of her head reached his chin. She found herself frozen, staring at his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest – firmer, more defined than she'd realized, too.

When she finally dared to look up at him, her breath caught.

His eyes—she'd always thought them to be brown, across the darkness of their dim cells. But no, they were hazel – a world of shifting color. Warm brown at the center, flecked with gold, hints of green catching in the light. They were sharper than usual, even through the exhaustion, and locked onto her with an intensity that sent heat crawling up her spine.

She had always known he was handsome, of course. It was impossible not to notice the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the strong cut of his jaw, the way his dark hair always fell just enough over his forehead, giving him that effortlessly disheveled, dangerous kind of charm.

But up close, it was different.

Her stomach twisted and she felt something new and distinct bloom in her chest. Something of a small fire she'd been willfully ignoring until now, suddenly felt like a blinding inferno.

Enzo's gaze dipped, taking her in the same way she had just done to him. He traced her features slowly, deliberately, lingering for just a second too long at the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, the delicate slope of her throat. He was memorizing her.

The heat between them shifted. Intensified.

Luciana swallowed. Enzo's lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

"Well," he murmured, voice rough, teasing. "This isn't so bad after all."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. He heard it. She knew he did. And his smirk deepened.

The moment stretched on. Too long, and yet not long enough.

And then the doors opened.