God. As long as she calls me Theo, I’ll take the liberty to call herbaby. She hasn’t objected yet.
“I keep missing things.” I try to joke, but it comes out strained. Twisted. “I hope no one else comes and knocks me out again.”
Her face crumples instantly.
Something flickers in her eyes—something sharp and haunting. Memory of me, probably. Of when she saw me helplessly drift away.
My chest tightens.
Her gaze drifts again over me, cataloguing every bruise. Every cut. Every place I’ve been torn open.
She keeps doing that. And every time she does, something inside her breaks a little more. It’s fucking ridiculous, but I hate that I look like this.
Not because of the pain. But because it hurts her.
I force myself to push past it.
And then the questions hit. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Don’t know what I’ve missed. And thenot knowingeats at me.
“You’re not hurt, right?” My voice drops. Tightens. “You’re okay?”
She nods.
Her tears have stopped, but the strain on her face? It’s worse now. Settled deeper. Like it’s carved into her.
“Good,” I murmur, nodding slowly. “Good.”
Bang!
My entire body goes rigid. Every nerve snapping to attention.
Footsteps—fast, uneven. Something—or someone—running.
I lean forward as much as the chains allow, trying to catch sight of what’s coming.
And then I see the woman from earlier.
She’s different now, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
She has a bolt cutter in one hand and a fucking syringe clenched in the other.
Is she going to knock me out again?
“Oh, good—you’re awake,” she pants, tossing the syringe aside like it’s nothing. Then she moves, fast and efficient.
The bolt cutter clamps down on Charlotte’s lock. “Stay back,” she says sharply, breath coming hard.
“What the fuck?” Charlotte mutters, already shifting away from the bars.
The woman grunts.
Clang!
The lock snaps clean off.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Holy fuck. Is she helping her?
