I blink, trying to adjust, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.
It's a cabin.
Old, rundown, with water stains on the ceiling and peeling wallpaper on the walls.
A single bare bulb hangs overhead, casting harsh shadows.
There's a mattress in the corner, stained and sagging.
A table with needles and syringes and little bags of powder.
And Virgil.
He's standing in front of me, his arms crossed, that same cold smile on his face. He's dressed in black—black jeans, black jacket, black boots—like he's going to a funeral. My funeral, maybe.
"There she is." He reaches out and rips the tape off my mouth. The pain makes my eyes water. "The prodigal junkie returns. Did you miss me, Vanna?"
"Go to hell."
He laughs. A short, ugly sound. "That's what I always liked about you. That fire. Most of my girls lose it after a while. They get broken, docile, easy to manage. But you—" He crouches down in front of me, his face level with mine. "You always had fight in you. Even when you were so high you couldn't stand, there was something in your eyes. Something that refused to quit."
"I'm not your girl. I never was."
"No?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something interesting he found under a rock. "You spread your legs for me often enough. Sucked my cock when you needed a fix. Did things that would make your biker husband sick if he knew." He reaches out, trails a finger down my cheek. "You were mine, Vanna. You just didn't know it yet."
I spit in his face.
The backhand comes fast and hard.
My head snaps to the side, stars exploding behind my eyes.
I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"That's going to cost you," Virgil says, wiping my spit from his face with a calm that's more terrifying than any rage. "Everything has a price, Vanna. You should know that by now."
He stands and walks to the table.
My heart pounds as I watch him sort through the syringes, the bags, the tools of destruction that almost killed me.
"You know what I think?" he says, his back to me. "I think you never really got clean. I think you just traded one addiction for another. The biker. The baby. The fantasy of a normal life." He turns, a syringe in his hand, filled with something clear. "But deep down, you're still the same junkie whore who used to do anything for a hit. And I'm going to prove it."
"No." The word comes out broken. Desperate. "Please. I'm pregnant. You can't?—"
"I can do whatever I want." He crosses back to me, grabs my face with one hand, forcing me to look at him. "That's what you never understood, Vanna. I own you. I've always owned you. And now I'm going to remind you what that means."
He holds up the syringe, letting the light catch the liquid inside.
"One hit," he says softly. "That's all it takes. One hit, and all that progress you've made goes up in smoke. One hit, and you're right back where you started. Crawling, begging, doing whatever I tell you to do."
"Please." Tears stream down my face. "Please, I have a baby. I can't?—"
"The baby." He laughs. "You think I care about the baby? That thing is just leverage. Something to keep your husband in line once I've broken you."
He grabs my arm, pushes up my sleeve.
I thrash, fighting against the zip ties, but there are hands on my shoulders now—his men, holding me still.
"No!" I scream. "No, please, no?—"
