Once.
Then again.
When it’s over, the warehouse is quiet except for my breathing—ragged, wet, wrong.
I look down.
There’s blood on my hands. On my arms. On my clothes.
Too much of it.
My legs give out. I hit the ground on my knees, dizzy, ribs screaming every time I inhale. Face bleeding. Definitely bruised.
Gabriel laughs.
Actually laughs.
He claps once, slow. “Good girl.”
I don’t look at him.
I can’t.
He steps closer and crouches, holding out a bottle of water.
“You’re shaking,” he says. “Drink.”
For the first time in hours, I feel a flicker of gratitude. My hands tremble as I take it. I’m so thirsty. My mouth tastes like copper and dust and fear.
I drink.
Two gulps.
Three.
The world tilts. My vision blurs at the edges.
“What—” My tongue feels thick. Heavy.
Gabriel’s face swims closer.
“I told you,” he says softly, almost kindly.“Trust no one.”
The bottle slips from my fingers. The floor rushes up.
Darkness takes me whole.
***
Cold.
That’s the first thing I register. The ground beneath me is like ice, biting through my bones, stealing the little warmth I have left.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
My fingers twitch, searching, desperate—and relief floods me when I feel fabric against my body. I’m still clothed.
I drag in a shallow breath. My ribs scream. My muscles pull, every ache worse than the last.
