I jolted at the sudden, quick movement in my periphery. Three large men strode toward me from the staircase to my right. They reached for me, and I screamed, locking eyes with Jayne as her features contorted with confusion. She stepped toward us.
“Red!” I managed to yell right before my world went dark, black fabric pressing against my head from all sides.
It was the universal safe word. Everyone here, especially Jayne, knew that meant a scene needed to be stopped immediately.
A hand covered my mouth, muffling all my next sounds.
“Red!” I tried to yell again, but it was useless.
Strong hands dragged me away, but I knew Jayne had heard me. She’d heard me say it.
And she’d done nothing.
50
WES
When I came to, all I felt was pure, unconscious panic. Every addict had the occasional relapse nightmare, especially in early sobriety. I hadn’t had one in a while. They were stressful as fuck, and nothing felt better than the relief that followed upon waking.
It was just a dream. I didn’t actually drink. I didn’t actually ruin my hard-fought recovery. I’m safe.
It took me a few seconds to realize this nightmare did not belong to the dreaming realm, and there was no escaping it.
I slowly sat up. I was in a windowless wine cellar, flat on my back, with a fucking IV in my arm. My mouth was dry and tasted sickly sweet, my head pounding in a dull ache.
Two chandeliers hung above me, dimly illuminating the stone arches and wood beams that gave the space an old European flair. A rustic wooden table sat in the center of the space, but no chairs.
The door to the cellar up four stairs was closed. I was alone.
Within arm’s reach were two pieces of toast on a plate.
I quickly assessed my options. I was hungover and still slightly drunk, but I didn’t feel drugged. Which meant the IV waslikely delivering fluids and electrolytes, and the toast served a similar purpose.
Roman was sobering me up.
Rage slowly simmered in my blood, but if I acted out of spite—if I ripped the IV out of my arm and refused the toast—I’d be at a disadvantage for whatever came next.
Roman had expertly designed his twisted, sadistic game for maximum damage. Every choice was a lose-lose. Either I did exactly what he wanted, which cost me my power, or I refused, and I lost my strength and…
Nova.
I would lose Nova.
My stomach lurched. I ate the toast.
An unfamiliar man came in an hour later to remove the IV. He was cold and unreadable. Neither of us spoke.
After he left, I searched the space. The only weapons of use to me were the wine bottles themselves, and those were unlikely to be helpful in the face of a gun.
I grabbed one anyway. It was the only thing I could do, the only action available to me. I leaned against the wall close to the door, seething with hatred and pure, primal protectiveness. I was prepared to offer Roman anything, anything at all, to stop him from hurting Nova.
Even my life.
Another two hours passed, and I still felt like death, but the alcohol had finally left my system. My head throbbed, but it was clear.
Clear enough to notice the rectangular bulge under the mat I’d woken up on.
I pulled outThe Story of O.The copy Roman had stolen from me.
