My gaze shifts to where the laptop used to be.
It's gone. Theo has it now.
That changes everything.
Because now he has leverage beyond scare tactics. Now he has proof. Evidence. Ammunition.
This just got bigger.
I need to move. Need to free her. Need to play my part as the protective savior who got beaten up trying to defend her.
I groan — half genuine, half performance — and shift onto my side. Every muscle protests, so it’s not entirely a lie. The kick to my stomach wasn't pulled. Neither were the ones to my ribs.
Theo wanted it to look real, so I let them kick my ass.
She tries to say something, but her voice is muffled behind the tape. She tries again, and I think she might be saying my name.
I don't respond yet. I need a moment to compartmentalize. To separate what I feel from what I need to do.
More sounds from her throat.
The desperation in the way she’s moving does something to me.
I force myself to move, to show signs of life. My foot shifts in her line of sight.
She tries again, but this time her shoulders relax like she’s relieved.
I place a hand on the floor and push myself up slowly, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my torso. When I finally manage to get to my knees, I have to pause and breathe through it.
Fuck, Theo and Silas did not hold back.
I crawl toward her. When I reach her chair, I place a hand on her shoulder — establishing contact, establishing trust, establishing that I'm here and I'm okay and we survived this together.
I kneel in front of her and see her properly for the first time.
The tape across her mouth. The tear tracks on her cheeks. The zip tie cuts on her wrists, where she must have struggled.
But it's her eyes that gut me.
She's looking at me like I'm the only thing standing between her and complete annihilation.
Like I'm her savior.
The guilt hits unexpectedly sharp.
I yank the tape off my mouth and spit out the fabric. I reach for the tape on her and start peeling it off slowly. She mumbles something, so I move faster. She spits out the fabric, panting for a breath of fresh air.
"Are you okay?" I ask, needing to know. Needing to assess the damage. "Did they hurt you?"
Tears spill down her face. "No. Are you okay?"
The concern in her voice — genuine, unfiltered concern for me after what she just went through — makes something uncomfortable shift in my chest.
"I'll be fine. Do you have scissors?" I ask, knowing that she probably doesn’t. I don’t even think she has toothpaste if I’m being honest.
She shakes her head, and I see her wince at the movement.
"Try the kitchen," she says.
