I am not theirs to do whatever they want with.
The car groans behind me, something catching fire. I smell it now—the sharp bite of burning oil, the sweet tang of blood. My cardigan sleeve sticks to my skin.
Hands seize my arms again. I thrash, but they’re stronger. My knees scrape asphalt, my head swimming, my chest tight.
The darkness feels endless.
But somewhere under the panic, there’s a thread of something else. Fury. Defiance. The same thing that kept me alive before.
I don’t stop screaming.
I don’t stop fighting.
Even when the bag cuts off most of the air, even when the world tilts and blurs, even when I know the odds are impossible.
Because I’ve already survived them once.
And I will again.
I wake to a wet, metallic taste in my mouth and the echo of screaming that twists my stomach. My head pounds, a relentless drum, and my eyes snap open just enough to catch the dim outlines of the warehouse. Shadows dance along the walls, cast by the flickering light of a single swinging bulb. And then I see Miles.
Confusion spreads through my mind like wildfire, erasing everything I thought I knew. I thought he had part of this, that he was the one kidnapping me, but am I wrong? Seeing Miles like this makes my chest ache, but not for too long because now I’m filled with rage when I realize how much they’ve already beaten him.
The man from before hammers into Miles’ side. Miles grits his teeth with a strangled cry, twisting against the blows. My heart tries to leap out of my chest, a scream clawing up my throat, but Miles—he manages a shaking, bloody shake of his head at me. I clamp my teeth over my tongue, tasting iron, tasting fear, tasting rage.
“How the hell—” I barely whisper, horror clawing at me. Miles catches my gaze briefly, a look that saysI don’t know, but stay with me.
“That’s enough,” a voice snaps, cold and measured. My stomach knots.
Footsteps echo against the concrete, slow, deliberate. A middle-aged man strolls in, the faint stench of whisky and cigar smoke trailing him like a mark of territory. He’s perfectly dressed, a dark suit that should look elegant but instead feels like a uniform for cruelty. He carries a half-empty bottle of amber whisky in one hand, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.
He stops in front of me, tilting his head, eyes dark and appraising. “Well, well,” he says, voice smooth, amused. “You’re a pretty thing.”
I spit at him without thinking.
The crack of a backhand knocks the breath out of me. Pain blossoms across my cheek. My vision blurs, the world tipping sideways, but I blink through it.
“Don’t,” Miles hisses, his voice ragged, but it’s drowned by the sickening thud of the hammer meeting flesh again. His scream rips through the warehouse, ragged and raw.
The man raises the cigar toward him lazily. “Be quiet.” Then another hammer blow lands, and Miles screams again, a sound that twists my chest into knots.
“You,” the man says, turning his attention back to me. His voice is low, dark, a predator circling. “You and I haven’t officially met. I am Victor. And you…you have something of mine.”
I swallow hard, trying to force words past my fear. My chest heaves. My hands are trembling. I want to lash out, scream, fight, but the sharp, cruel reality of Miles’ suffering freezes me in place. I’m trapped, powerless, and every instinct screams at me to run, to do something, anything.
Victor steps closer, and I can smell the smoke, the alcohol, the danger. His gaze flicks to Miles again, then back to me, and I realize with a cold, sinking certainty that whatever I have—whateverhe wants—it’s something I can’t give willingly. And yet, my body wants to fight him anyway.
I lift my chin, trying to appear unafraid, and my voice comes out shakier than I want. “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”
Victor chuckles, dark and slow. He reaches for me again, his hand brushing my cheek like he’s marking territory. “Oh, I thinkyou know what it is. And if I were you, I would want to start cooperating,” he murmurs. “And soon, you’ll see exactly why.”
I look at Miles, bleeding, breathing hard, and something fierce ignites inside me.
32
Miles
Idon’tknowhowlong I’ve been here. Minutes and hours run together—the warehouse is a clock that only counts in pain. My wrists are split raw where the rope digs in, knuckles white under the strain, the coarse fibers biting into skin. My shoulders scream every time I breathe. I can taste blood in my mouth, a copper tang that refuses to wash away. The light over us swings, throwing the steel rafters into a slow, indifferent pulse.
