Both dogs freeze. Their eyes flick from Johnathon to the armed men surrounding us.
“I’ve seen dogs like these do some truly fucking terrifying things,” he says, dragging me forward. “And you got yourself a matched set. Hilarious.”
“No one lets those dogs out,” Johnathon snaps.
Every man stiffens.
“You open that door…they will kill you. Military trained. Only take commands from the girl. I swear to fuck, Jenkins—pull out a treat and they’ll take your hand. If not your throat.”
“When am I seeing him?” I ask, digging my heels in.
Johnathon sighs, scratching his head like I’m a mild inconvenience.
“You behave. Be compliant. There are fresh clothes inside. A basin to clean up.”
He turns casually, his eyes flicking over me.
“You’ve got twenty minutes. After that I come in and wash you myself.”
My eyes widen.
Fear flares—then burns into fury.
“Don’t you—”
I try to jerk back, but the restraints bite and his grip tightens like iron.
“Better hurry,” he says lightly. “You’ve got nineteen minutes now.”
A few men chuckle.
The sound makes my stomach twist.
I want to hit him.
I want to run.
But I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how long I was out. Every direction feels like a dead end.
We reach the collapsing house.
Johnathon flicks out a knife.
My heart jumps into my throat.
But instead of cutting me—he slides two fingers beneath the plastic at my wrists, testing the tension, angling the blade carefully away from my skin.
The restraints snap apart.
Blood rushes back into my hands in painful throbs.
The house reeks of damp wood and rot. The air is stale, heavy. Wallpaper peels in long strips, stained plaster exposed beneath. The floor groans under our weight, every step too loud in the hollow space.
He guides me into the front room and motions to a tattered sofa.
I sit. The cushions sag, springs pressing through threadbare fabric.
“Through there,” he says, nodding toward the next room. “Basin. Clothes. Something more appropriate.”
