By now, I'm sure word has spread to anyone who cares. And I don't why that's such an alarming number.

Prue must have sensed it from the look on my face last night. She guessed correctly and I didn't argue with her. I was tired of being hit, and it was probably the one instance where I wasn't.

As for the rest of them, if they didn't know then, I'm sure they do now. The wolves might be able to smell blood from a distance. It's everywhere now. To manage the flow, I don't have anything besides cheap toilet paper. And—I flip the sheets off me—sure enough, it seeped through my nightgown, and there's a blotch on the white sheets.

I glance at the camera. Yes, he can probably see it, too.

It's here with a vengeance. Cramps, bloating. And there's the likelihood I won't live to see the end of it.

Another wave of panic hits me with that awareness. I'm somehow deaf to the footsteps. Then I'm startled by a knock.

Prue wouldn't bother...

I don't think to answer it. I'm never given the choice. It doesn't open on my side anyway. Trust me, I've tried, and with every sad "tool" I can get my hands on. And I assume, whoever it is, that it's just a warning knock. Their entry won't rely on my permission.

It's followed by a second knock, louder, more determined, and far less patient than the first.

"Come . . . come in?" I call out, confused. Then I take a moment to clear the morning frog from my throat and blear from my eyes. My contacts are gone. One of them tore and the bigger piece fell down the drain. Wearing one without the other gave me an insufferable headache. There was nothing more I could do, and I flushed what was left of them down the toilet.

Scratching pervades the lock and the door creaks open.

"Ivy?" I wonder aloud as a curvy, dark-haired, morbidly well-dressed woman comes in. I can only make out the texture of her hair in the morning light. Of course, it's curled to perfection, like she's going to a club and it's not 8:00am on a—what is it now?—Sunday?

Her giggle confirms her identity. It's airy, shallow, and overly familiar, like we're friends. "There's doubt in your voice. I didn't think you could forget me? So soon?"

Her presence should come as no surprise. Still, something seems off. She's not spitting venom—yet—and it makes me wonder why. She always seemed to use honey rather than vinegar with me, which was, now that I think about it, a bit foreboding under the circumstances.

Now she has an actual reason to despise me, and the feeling is mutual and then some. I wish she would just cut the crap. If this is her revenge, and that's why I'm here, or part of the reason I'm here, let's just get on with it already.

I sit up all the way and scoot against the wall, making sure to bundle the sheets into my lap. "I can't see very well," I let her know, and I don't return any of her fake kindness. "If you want better recognition, why don't you people dig up my glasses. I'm sure that's within your power."

"We're asking for favors? Already?" she says through another bless-your-heart laugh. "And, silly me, I thought I went out of my way as it is. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished."

She approaches my cot and tosses a reusable shopping bag down beside me. I peek inside and see a package of cheap white underwear and some generic maxi pads. Then she strolls to a spot on the opposite wall and leans against it, crossing her arms and slippered feet—purple and fuzzy, and like she just pulled them out of their designer box.

She must live here . . . and I bet she doesn't have to go to work or school. It would be beneath her, to struggle like that.

"You're not even going to say thanks?" she prompts me, like I'm five.

"Thanks," I grind out, staring her down.

She stares back and grins, unshakable. I can understand why Jael was so taken by her. So controlled and so fearful. Anything you say or avoid saying, she can twist it to make you feel small and stupid. Needy and selfish. In the wrong no matter how reasonable you're actually being.

"That's better," she coos, cocking her head, like I deserve a cookie for doing what I was basically told to do, and it makes no difference to her if I meant what I said or not.

I hate that she's so much better at this than I am. I hate that she's having fun at my expense. I hate that she has a horde of people—or whatever they are—to spoil her rotten. And I hate hate hate that she smells better, feels better, looks better than I do right now. How could she not? I don't even have a comb, toothbrush, decent soap or hot water.

I've never had so much hate in my heart. I hate that, too. In general, I try to avoid comparing myself to anyone, but these are extraordinary circumstances. It's hard to make peace with what I have when she has everything she could ever want, including me, her ex's temporary plaything, at her complete disposal. It's a revenge fantasy at its best.

Who knows? Maybe they're even back together. It could be a part of her arrangement with him. One of those favors she seems so accustomed to trading.

My fists clench against the sheets and I sigh, unapologetically loud, and release them. "Why don't you just tell me what you want. You're not really here to help me. That's clear enough. You won't explain anything. No one ever does. And I don't want to hold you up. I know you have better places to be. And better things to do. You'd be doing us both a favor by leaving. I know I'd rather jump out the window than endure this visit any longer than I have to."

She glances at the window and smirks her lips—a subtle black today—like she knows something I don't. "It would be fun to see you try. But first. . ." She pulls something clear and skinny out of the pocket of her tight pleather pants and wiggles it before my half-blind eyes.

"What is that? I say, squinting.

"A vial."

I can see it better when she stops moving it—about six inches long, half an inch in diameter and it comes with a black screw cap. She also provides a glass pipette with a bulb.

"What's it for?"

"A period blood sample." She holds both items in front of her, like it's a bouquet of flowers.

It's my turn to snicker. "Is that what this is about? You could have, you know, just asked me. You didn't have to ruin my whole life over something I flush down the toilet."

"And I don't need you to tell me how to run my life." Ivy comes forward and tries forcing the vial and pipette upon me. "A few drops. That's all I need."

I could throw them across the room. It does cross my mind. I could probably get a sharp piece of glass out of it. It would be an inconvenience she wouldn't appreciate. And I can't deny how much that appeals to me right now.

Yes, I long for an opportunity to rile her up. It couldn't be that hard.

Something does come to mind, better than any broken glass. It's the only thing I have on her. As fleeting as it may have been, Jael picked me. At least that's what the ample evidence in the shower would suggest.

How deep would I have to dig to find that bruise to her ego? She could be a fast healer, but somehow, I doubt it. She doesn't seem like the type. Her grudges are probably festering just below the surface. If they're poked and prodded, they'd become an ugly and obvious wound.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, crossing my arms, making a point not to take what's being offered—a path of least resistance.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," she informs me. "Would you like to know what the hard way entails?"

"Not particularly."

She ignores me. "I call for help. And they will come. Males, preferably. And they'll hold you down, strip you bare, and do as they're told. No one in this household will care how loud you are or what mess you make. So, either way, I leave this room with your blood in a vial." She makes another aggressive attempt to hand me the items. "Out of the goodness of my heart, I'm offering the easy way first."

"Can I. . ." I take a shallow gulp, realizing how powerless I am and how stupid I'm being. Then I reach for the glass, and make sure I'm careful. "For the easy way . . . can I ask for something in return?"

Ivy shrugs one shoulder and sort of nods and shakes her head. I can't be sure if that's a yes or a no, or a depends.

"My glasses," I blurt anyway. "They were probably on my dresser or nightstand."

She urges me into the bathroom with the sweep of her hand. "I'll see what I can do."

That was too easy. I should have asked for more.

I grab the bag she gave me and go to the bathroom. It's the morning after my period made its first appearance, and there is plenty to work with. Ivy needs a few drops and I manage to get a quarter of a vial. I cap it off and tend to the rest of the blood like a civilized human being—with underwear and a maxi-pad.

Upon my return, I give back all the glass and return to my bed. It's the only thing that would really qualify as a chair.

Much to my dismay, Ivy doesn't leave. She wraps everything in toilet paper, pockets it once again, and resumes her casual lean against the wall across from me. We're on opposite sides of the room, but it still feels close. A bit suffocating, to be honest.

"Is there something else I can do for you, Ivy? Please, let me know. I am here to serve." I shift my gaze to the window, and Ivy is watching me with apparent amusement.

My sarcasm doesn't seem to hit the mark. It's like she didn't hear me at all. "Do you know why there are blades lining the window?"

"To keep bad girls like me from committing suicide? Well, it would still be possible. It would just make more of a mess."

"You surprisingly have the right idea."

"Why is that surprising? It seems pretty self-explanatory. Is it because I'm just a dumb cheerleader?"

"If the cute, athletic shoe fits..." A flash of hostility punctures through the veneer. "Anyway..." Her eyes then flutter toward the window in question, forcing the return of her composure. "It's an interesting story. And I think you should hear it, for your own good."

I pull my knees up and use my leg and elbow to anchor a thumb into my throbbing temple. I'm supposed to survive this period without Advil. Is it any wonder that I'm almost a match for Ivy's witchiness today?

Is that what she is? A witch? It's as good a guess as any...

She answers that question early on in her story without me having to ask. The house goes back many generations. The Fowler legacy is carried on by the female line—a witch line. They marry human men and procreate, and only under very specific circumstances—which Ivy did not get into—do witches give birth to males.

"In the past, there was the occasional love match, but, for the most part," Ivy goes on, "there is some bribery, coercion, or trickery involved. What can I say? As beautiful as we sometimes are, human men don't do well with the powerlessness and isolation. They almost never outlive their wives for one reason or another. I find the whole tradition repulsive, but babies must be made, or the house, which is a very special house, would cease to exist. And that's what we have Rosemary for. My older sister," she informs me. "She's the dutiful little darling," she adds resentfully. "And that leaves me to do as I please, at least for a while—if all goes well—and I intend to make the most of it..."

Like playing around with the wolves? Or some other dark, devilish creature that may be sexually compatible, but not socially or biologically compatible? And maybe there are some that are all three? Again, she isn't big on details that are actually "interesting."

At her dramatic pause, I give her an eyeroll. "Is there a point to this story?"

"You're such a child," she scolds me. "I'm getting to that," she then bristles. "I don't know what Jael ever saw in you."

I choose not to respond to that. And it has the opposite effect of what you'd expect. She's not used to being ignored. It seems to shorten her fuse. Maybe next time I can get her to blow. I can't decide if I want her to, though. I would enjoy seeing it, but the consequences may be beyond my ability to fathom.

"This is where you should pay attention. The window is connected to my great, great grandmother's time here. She was fruitful, having had twelve children, but she was supposedly a tyrant, especially to the servants—poor immigrants who had nowhere else to go. Her husband could also be cruel, but it was pale in comparison. Nonetheless, he was bored, quite often—which is typical for men within these walls—and had a violent streak that required an outlet. The wife and children were off limits, and he was cowed enough to abide by that. Instead, he took a liking to the youngest or prettiest servant, well into his old age. Even when he couldn't walk very well, he would hobble up to this very room, and do his worst.

"His wife knew. Of course she knew! We always do," Ivy feels the need to add. "Thanks to his cane, bum knee, and age of the stairs, how could she not? She would also take out her frustration on his favorite servant. Chores that would make her fingers bleed..."

Ivy flicks a hand at some of the faded brown smudges on the peeling gray paint.

I assumed it was just dirty...

"According to my great great grandmother's journals, these human girls never survived for long, and with twelve spirited young Fowlers to feed and care for, they were always replaced. Without standard medical care, they'd die in childbirth—the master's doing—or due to illness or injury or whatever.

"There was one particularly skittish girl, later in their lives and one of the last of her kind, who would lie here, in your very bed, counting his footsteps, hoping the master of the house wouldn't make it, too sore or too tired, or he'd get caught and turn around.

"Sometimes he'd barge in. Sometimes he wouldn't. The not knowing for certain drove this girl to an escape attempt out the window. But, there's no convenient way down and she fell, but not to her death. She was, however, crippled from the waist down. Still, she made other attempts, this time just to end it, and she was astoundingly creative. Paint chips, wood splinters, bed coils, you name it. And what a mess, though never a conclusive one...

"This, of course, did not discourage the man of the house. He did everything he could to keep this girl alive, and would, still, regularly indulge. Blades on the window, chains on the bed. Her new condition and mental state were food for his compulsivity. When he wasn't in this room with her, he'd wait in a creaky rocking chair at the bottom of the stairs and would launch himself into action at the faintest twitch.

"Needless to say, my great great grandmother resented this girl when she was healthy. She resented them both. So, the time and energy her husband devoted to her was unacceptable and inexcusable. They had to pay. And one night, she snapped. She couldn't kill him. He had sole control of his inheritance, and promised she'd never see a cent of it unless he died peacefully. And she couldn't technically kill the girl, because the same rules applied.

"To get around this, she lined the whole side of the house with spikes using just her bare hands and the light of the moon. And one day, while her husband was relieving himself, she unbuckled the servant and jimmied the window open with a crowbar. And sure enough, within a few minutes, the girl fell to her doom, impaled in four places. She was left there until her husband found the energy to clean her up, and deposit her in some shallow, mass grave on the property. And yes, on a quiet night, you can still hear the rocking chair, the uneven footsteps, the grunts of pleasure, and moans of despair..."

"Why are you telling me all this?" I interrupt again.

"Do I need to spell it out for you? Was it too much for your blonde brain to comprehend? Well, don't get any bright ideas. There is no way out. The spikes are still there, below the bushes. Even death will not set you free. So, your cooperation is in your best interest. It could always be worse."

"This sounds like a Prue lecture. Like mother like daughter, I guess."

I didn't know that for sure, but it seems fairly obvious now. The house is important to them. They probably won't ever leave it, not completely, even if their mother is an overbearing busybody and lives to an ornery old age. It would certainly be a deal-breaker for any sane male who gets sucked into their vortex, even if a young witch is pleasant and attractive. Everything Ivy is not...

"It's no wonder Jay was so easy to steal," I go on to say. "He knows what you're about to become."

I thought that would hit harder than it did. It's the only weapon I have, and it sucks that it didn't seem to hurt.

"Is that what you think? You stole him from me?" Ivy scoffs, smiling. "I left him alone. I let him have you."

I cross my arms around a shiver. My head drifts to the door. If I can't run, I wish I could shove her through it. "I don't believe you."

"Here's something you should know about your beloved 'Jay.' He's territorial and I gave him something to protect. He likes playing hero sometimes, and you're the perfect victim. Don't mistake that for love. Or even affection. It's merely a coincidence. Codependency. And I'm sorry, hun. You're fuckable but forgettable. He's just a male with a pea brain a bit lower than it should be sometimes. Unfortunately for you, he's already over it. Out of sight, out of mind. In truth, he was never on it that much to begin with. It was all a job he was doing for me, and he threw you under the bus at the first opportunity. Believe what you want, but he's the reason you're here. If proof is what you require, I have more than enough."

She pushes from the wall and approaches me while scrolling through her phone. About two feet in front of my face, she plays a video. I can already tell, Jael is the main character.

"Sam is . . . reasonably attractive, if you can ignore a few character flaws and red flags in the heat of the moment. Which, you know..." He shrugs. "I could. Dry spell, and all, I guess..."

There are cameras, apparently, everywhere. Even inside my old apartment. In Ivy's video, two rows of monitors are in view, and some of the footage looks familiar. Even with my crappy eyesight, I can also make out the image on the laptop sitting there. I catch a glimpse of my bare chest on still-frame.

I stop watching, looking toward the window I can't escape through, not unless I choose death. I don't have the strength of mind or stomach. But I can't escape the audio...

"What was I supposed to do?" Jael poses the question to some older male I don't recognize. It could be the "Ishmael" that Shilo warned me about. "Reject her when she came on to me...?"

The security guru makes no answer.

"Right, well..." Jael clears his throat. "I look at it this way. Sam never would have told me about her past if we kept all our clothes on..."

Ivy hits pause and pockets the phone. "Do you need any more proof than that?"

I should question the context, but my hard drive is crashing. Through the onset of tears, I can barely breathe.

Burying my head by my knees doesn't help me catch my breath.

"There, there. Don't cry." Ivy sets a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off. I can't handle her fake pity. "He's not worth it," she reveals. "Don't get me wrong. Jael is very fuckable, and he does earn his keep in that regard, and then some. But, there's never any real commitment with him. There's no future. He has a mate, you know, and supposedly abandoned a whole litter of wolf pups and his alpha obligations. He prefers to keep things casual, in case he decides to go back. I can live with that, at least temporarily. I have no desire to be tied down, either. And certainly not with him. What a scandal that would be! But . . . I'm not you, Sam," she utters disdainfully, like my name is a curse. "You're just waiting for your white knight to save you, and knowing your taste—one neanderthal after another—just about anyone would suffice. You're probably praying for that white dress by your twentieth birthday and all—"

"Please, just leave!" I cry out, my head lifting. I attempt to wipe my face dry with my sleeve, as pointless as it may be. "Or let me leave. You've got your blood sample. And I'm sorry I ever looked in Jael's direction. I mean that. So, please . . . just let me out of here! You'll never have to see me again!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

Ivy tries sauntering away from me, but I lurch for the waist of her pants and throw myself on the floor.

"Why? I promise I won't say anything," I plead, on my knees, in a tangle of sheets, my bloody nightgown on display, and fresh tears in my eyes. "I don't even know where we are. No one would believe me even if I tried to explain. I got lost in the woods. That is believable. So let me go! Blindfolded. Whatever. In another county or state if you have to. And then we can all pretend this never happened."

Ivy pats me on the head and then peels my fingers from her belt. "Rest up, Sam. You'll need it. I'll see you tomorrow." By the door, she removes a key from her ample cleavage.

I stride forward on my knees, but collapse on my behind soon after, knowing it's hopeless. "What's happening tomorrow?"

There's no way to keep her here, make her go, or push past her. She has like five inches and fifty pounds on me, not to mention, a family downstairs, and a wolf pack on the premises, who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves and their masters.

Ivy puts the key inside the door-front and gives me a cruel, knowing smile. "I'll try to get you those glasses. Honestly, though, it's fair to say, you'd be better off without them."