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“Yes,” I said, straightening.

The door opened, and he entered with that same controlled precision I'd seen in the woods. He'd attempted to restore his formal armor—sleeves rolled back down, waistcoat buttoned—but the effect was incomplete. His dark hair was still disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less controlled.

He was objectively handsome. Dangerously so. The kind of man who could move through a ballroom with perfect grace, then chase you through a forest without breaking stride. Victorian gentleman on the surface, predator underneath.

I hated that I noticed. Hated that even fear couldn't make me blind to the way he moved, the intensity in those hazel eyes, the controlled power in every gesture.

He carried something draped over his arm—fabric in an array of colors.

“We need to discuss your situation,” he said, closing the door behind him. Not quite shutting me in, but close enough. “And what happens next.”

“You mean my imprisonment.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “Your survival, Miss Whitmore. Which depends entirely on how well you can follow instructions.”

My stomach dropped.

He moved further into the room, set the fabric—dresses, I realized—on the back of a chair with careful precision. “I've bought you time, Miss Whitmore. Seven days, perhaps more if I'm persuasive. But that time comes with conditions.”

“Conditions.”

“Requirements.” He turned to face me fully, and the coldness in his eyes made my breath catch. “You will answer every question I ask. Completely. Honestly. You will demonstrate your knowledge of this time. You will prove—convincingly—that you are who you claim to be.”

“Or?”

“Or I deliver you to the Unraveler, who will unravel you before sunset.” He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. “And trust me, you don't want that.”

“And after you have everything? After I've told you every secret, answered every question? What then?”

He studied me for a long moment, something calculating in his expression. “Then I decide if you're worth keeping alive.”

The words hit like a slap. No protection. No reassurance. Just cold honesty about exactly how much power he held.

“So I'm useful or I'm dead.”

“Precisely.” But then something shifted in his expression—not quite softening, but. . . changing. “However, being useful requires more than just information. You cannot remain a mystery woman locked in my guest room. People will ask questions. My father will hear rumors. And then your usefulness ends rather abruptly.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to become someone else.” He gestured at the dress. “A distant cousin to Miss Adeline Wolfe. She's the sister of my associate, Garrick—the man who was with me in the forest. Adeline's home is being remodeled, so I've graciously offered to house you both until the work is complete.”

I stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be someone's cousin.”

“I want you to convince everyone you are someone's cousin. a difference.” He moved to the window, looking out at the darkening street. “One slip—one moment where you forget yourself, speak too modern, move too freely—and questions will be asked. Questions that lead to my father. Questions that end with your death.”

“No pressure then.”

“None at all.” He turned back, and there might have been the ghost of a smile on his lips. “But you said you've studied history. So, prove it. Prove you're the scholar you claim to be. Prove you know this world well enough to survive in it.” He crossed his arms. “Because if you cannot—if this is all an elaborate lie and you're really just a Weaver spinning stories—then I'm wasting valuable time that could be spent hunting actual threats.”

“I study this time period. Victorian England, 1865 to 1892 specifically. Social structures, class systems, gender expectations.” I moved away from the bed, some of my confidence returning. “I know how women were supposed to behave. What they wore, how they spoke, what was considered proper. I've read hundreds of letters, diaries, etiquette manuals from this era.”

“Reading about it and living it are quite different things.”

“I'm aware.” I met his gaze steadily. “But I'm not walking into this blind. I know the rules, even if I've never had to follow them myself. And I'm a fast learner when my life depends on it.”

Something shifted in his expression. Reassessment, maybe. Or grudging respect.

“You research this specific time period,” he said slowly. “Why?”