Before I know it, the once intact dining table no longer stands on its four legs.
Glass smashes, someone roars my name, and I’m tackled to the ground with hundreds of pounds of weight crunching my body into the hardwood floor.
The tracker’s not at the manor.
It’s not even at Conrad’s.
She’s not anywhere fucking near Kingstone.
It’s in the middle of the fucking ocean.
21
Indie
death is no more (slowed) - blessed mane
Myeyesflutterawaketo a darkened room, a hard, cold and wet surface pressing into my cheek. It feels as though the world is spinning as fast as a globe bar.
There’s a subtle ringing in my ears, and my head throbs to the point I want to squeeze my eyes back closed. Until I remember.
My eyes snap back open, heart rate picking up as my gaze darts around the darkened room. My mind scrambles as I try to piece everything together. I have no idea where I am.
I got blindfolded just as they threw me in the van, Morgan keeping the barrel of his gun into my waist the entire ride.
Someone—a man—had said about drugging me before they took me outside. At that point I lost my shit. There was no way in hell I was being drugged by these people again, being forced into something against my own will.
They already dragged me out of that house, and then they wanted to reignite my biggest fear of all.
I can’t remember what happened after that, but the sound of Morgan’s voice fuzzily echoes in my ears, and I can only imagine he used his gun on my head to make me comply.
Again.
I push to sit from the hard concrete floor, no longer having the tight metal cuffs binding my wrists. My entire left side aches from however long I’ve been knocked out here, likely discarded like trash, because I don’t remember being hit on the side of my face that feels tender.
The other side? That aches like a bitch. I can feel the crusted blood dried into it.
Even though the light is weak, I can see the angry red marks burning along my wrists from the faint radiance seeping from under the door.
My palm gently touches the source of my screaming headache, feeling my hair wet where it’s been bleeding, the blood matted in my hair.
Panic grips my throat, tightening to a point I can feel it closing up, threatening to strangle me.
My hands fly to my belt, finding it still intact and three loops remaining, and that my tracker is still in my back pocket when my fingertips graze the pocket over my butt.
My gaze travels all four corners of the room.
Cold concrete walls, a haunting dampness in the air, and a stale scent assaulting my nostrils. I’m in the cells they hold their trafficking victims.
Saliva fills my mouth, my chest spasming as I feel the vomit rise in my stomach. I chant the only prayer I can to calm the anxiety wracking through my bones.
Saint will find me next.
He has to.
They’ll have gotten to my mom, she’ll be taken care of, and then they’ll get me the fuck out of this hell hole.
But how long will it be before I’m stripped of these clothes, until they find my tracker, my only connection to them severed?
