"Yeah. Rest. Sleep. You're not gonna miss nothin'."
And that's what she does.
She turns off.
8
I wake up disoriented, my neck cramped, muscles stiff, awareness flooding back in fragmented pieces like a Netflix show resuming mid-episode after someone pressed pause three weeks ago and you have absolutely no idea what's happening, or who these people are, or why everyone's crying.
Where the hell am I?
Panic claws up my throat. The surface beneath me is moving. Engine rumbling. Windows dark. Someone else's clothes on my body. A collar around my throat?—
A hand touches my shoulder.
I gasp, jerk away hard, my spine slamming against the car door.
"Easy, easy—it's just me."
Irish accent. Gray eyes. Blond hair.
Oh.
Relief floods through me so fast I actually smile. "Lorcan."
"Yeah. You're alright. Just wakin' ya up. We're nearly home."
I blink at him.
Process that word.
Home.
His home. Not mine. Because mine is?—
Giovanni's dungeon. Jino's training mat. The throne where I kneel. Position Three with my forehead pressed to stone. The punishment bench. The notebooks. The rules I broke by taking the key. The library I wasn't supposed to enter. The book I wasn't supposed to touch.
The sads hit me like a freight train driven by a nihilist who doesn't believe in brakes.
I turn away from Lorcan, staring out the window as my throat tightens and my eyes burn.Don't cry. Do not fucking cry in front of the hot Irish kidnapper who thinks you're a victim. Prove him wrong by not being pathetic.
"Hey." His voice gentles. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just—tired."
Liar.
I sit up properly, forcing myself to look around, tonoticethings like a functioning human with working observational skills instead of a broken wind-up toy that only knows three positions and how to count to thirty.
We're driving through what looks like someone tried to build a utopian future city but also wanted to keep ittasteful. Sleek glass buildings. Exposed brick. String lights everywhere like the neighborhood hired an Instagram influencer as urban planning consultant. Waterfront views. Trendy restaurants with names like "Salt & Ash" or "The Butcher's Daughter" that definitely serve twelve-dollar toast.
"South Boston Waterfront," Lorcan says, watching me take it in. "Seaport District. Don't judge me."
I snort despite myself. "For what?"
"For livin' somewhere this fuckin' trendy."
And just like that, my brain kicks back online.Oh good. We're doing banter. I know how to do banter. Banter is safe.
