Maybe that’s their tactic: drive me to the brink of insanity before they torture the information out of me.
I stay awake as long as possible but my brain takes short naps. Humans can’t survive longer than eleven days without sleep... most would die after a week. The electronic clock on the wall tells me I don’t sleep for longer than two or three minutes at a time, my body in combat mode, ready for war at any moment.
Exhaustion threatens to pull me under, but despite the weakness in my limbs, I’m on high alert, thinking through my time at Lakeside. I’m constantly dissecting the information, looking for clues I might’ve missed, scrutinizing every word my father spoke, every word from Matthews, every fucked-up memory of Alex, and everything Nash said but I have nothing beyond what I wrote in the diary.
I’ve also had precisely zero new flashbacks, as if my mind’s rebelling against remembering the past while I’m scared to death of the present.
The evidence these men are after must be priceless given the trouble Nash went through to retrieve it—the trouble whoever’s in charge here went through to kidnap Jonathan’s daughter to make sure he’d deliver me...
I strain to remember, hoping sheer will might help, but the gaping hole of my memories doesn’t clear. I have no idea what or where the evidence is.
One thing I am sure about is that I made a bad situation worse by running from Lakeside. Maybe I should’ve asked Nash for an explanation first. Hewasusing me, but he kept me safe. He made me feel wanted, needed... loved. I can’t remember ever feeling happier than I did when we were together.
It was an illusion but it felt so fucking real.
I miss him. Well... nothim, whoever he really is. I don’t know him. I miss the character he created. I miss Nash as he was with me. The fire burning in his eyes whenever he touched me, the possessiveness in how he held me, the safe fantasy he crafted. I miss it so much that with every passing hour my heart’s slowly being shredded like a wad of unwanted papers.
Pushing my feelings aside is impossible. Nash buried himself deep in my heart and I can’t evict him. I don’t think I want to. I repeat everything I’ve learned, trying to muster the hatred he deserves. He’s not a college student. He’s no armyman, either. He’s like the men holding me captive. Like the man in my flashback, the one with blood running down his hands. Like the men my father’s spent his career chasing.
A lying, manipulative con man who gave me everything I never knew I wanted, then ripped it away.
I don’t lovehim... but I love the illusion.
Dad always said mafia men are a ruthless, unforgiving breed. No sentiments. They use any and all means to get what they want and don’t care about the destruction they leave behind.
My grandfather was brutally murdered by the mafia some thirty years ago. Dad said Grandad was one of them... and they turned on him.
I think that’s when Dad vowed to clear the streets. He’s kept that vow, sending dozens behind bars. Dozens of dangerous men no one else was brave enough to target. The same men I’m surrounded by now. Ruthless killers.
It’s been four days, but my breath still hiccups every time I remember the flashback when Nash pulled the trigger. Deep, red blood covering the hands of an older version of Nash.
My stomach churns with a mixture of disappointment and longing. He lied for weeks, wrapping a security blanket around me while simultaneously weaving a web of intricate lies. I thought he had feelings for me... Even if they were less powerful than mine, I believed what he felt was real.
Silly me. After Alex, I should’ve known better. I’m not good enough to keep, just a cheap solution to boredom.
The door opens again no more than fifteen minutes later. Darius steps inside, cocking one eyebrow as he slaps the door closed and turns the key, pocketing it quickly.
“You’re running out of time. If you won’t shower yourself, I guess I’ll have to help you.”
He stalks closer, rolling the sleeves of his black shirt past the elbows, uncovering veiny, muscled forearms with black serpents snaked around.
I shrink further, praying the wall behind me will swallow me whole. His heavy boots touch my toes as he bends to grab my elbows, digging his fingers so hard into flesh and bones that tears blur my vision.
I’m on the floor one second, the next my feet dangle three inches off the ground. He settles me down, gaining a better grip under my arms, then hauls me up again.
“Let me go!” I croak, the words like razors slashing my tongue. “Put me down.”
“Oh, I will.”
He enters the shower room, settling me under the closest nozzle, and turns the water on.
I squeal, trying to get away from the ice-cold stream spattering my back. My legs barely hold my weight, weak and wobbly from lack of movement, but I back myself against the wall where the water doesn’t reach.
“You should’ve done this yourself,” Darius snarls, a twisted, deranged smile curling his lips. “We don’t have all fucking day. The next shipment will be here soon.”
My brows furrow. “What shipment?” I mutter.
“You didn’t think you’d be alone here forever, did you? There are thirty beds and every single one will be filled within the hour. You’re getting company.”
