“I want to raise a toast.” I hold up my glass, and he follows suit. “To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings.” We clink glasses, and I see him downing the entire glass of golden brown liquid. And immediately, I notice the pause in his movements—my chest flutters—not with triumph, but with worry.
“Are you okay?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. “You look a little… off.”
He waves his hand at me while blinking a few times, like he is trying to focus through a haze. “I… feel dizzy,” he murmurs. I step closer, letting a shadow of concern fall across my features.
“Sit down for a moment,” I say softly, reaching out to steady him. My heart is racing—not from guilt, not from excitement—but from wanting to make sure he is safe. Really, that’s all that matters. I need M safe.
“Maybe it’s that we were confined in this place all day long, or had too much coffee earlier?” I suggest lightly.
“I don’t know. Lana, I don’t feel good.” M slurs his words, and he falls onto the floor. I’m not feeling good myself.
58
Adam
“There is…”
59
Oliver
“…nothing here.”
60
M“Where the fuck am I?” My head is spinning, and my throat is sore. This feeling is something I haven’t experienced, ever. Usually, I would be doing this shit, not the other way around. I open my eyes, and the first thing I notice is that this place is unfamiliar.
Completely unrecognizable.
What the fuck is going on here? And why are my hands bound together?
I try to wiggle my way out of this position, with no luck. I’m tied to a metal chair that is chained to the floor. Even when I’m in danger, I appreciate the craftsmanship and the planning behind all of this. The people who took me put a lot of thought into abducting me. Probably because they knew it would be fucking difficult to take down a motherfucker like me.
That also means that these people were fucking dangerous and smart as hell. All of that brings me down to one fundamental question: where is Lana?
“Where is she?” For the first time in my life, I’m desperate. I’m hung up on not being able to see her, and it is making me angry. The room I’m in is probably isolated, and even if I screamed, nobody would hear me.
“Come on out, I’m not fucking afraid of anybody who is behind that door!” My voice is getting louder by the second. The room I’m in is recreated to look like a standard hospital room—a bed, a chair, a small cabinet on the right side, and a fucking crib. What the fuck is happening here?
“Volim te najvise na svijetu.1”
I stop breathing, and my eyes are darting around the room. Where is this shit coming from? I instinctively start pulling at my wrists and ankles, like I want to run toward the sound.
“My beautiful son.”
I push my heels into the floor, and my spine goes rigid.
“Mama?” I ask, like my mother is still here. Fuck, I’m not normal in the head. That can’t be my mother’s voice. Just by hearing her voice, my eyes are filling up with tears. I miss my mother so much.
This right here is the definition of torture.
With physical torture your body can brace itself for impact, but with psychological torture it’s a whole different story. The predictability is removed and your mind takes over and it starts torturing itself. And the worst thing? Your tormenter doesn’t even need to be there for the infliction of pain.
And I need to fight this.
“Stop this madness!” I scream, now even louder than before. The dread that is coursing through my veins is fucking me up in the worst ways. I would rather take a full-on beating than experience this fucking shit.
