Page 50 of Freedom’s Inferno

Chapter 21

Chuck

Lana hadn’t come out after disappearing into her room.

The wall clock read just past eleven, and while I hadn’t turned in for bed yet, I assumed she had. The suite had gone still, the hum of the city muffled behind thick velvet curtains. The distance should have been a relief, the space between us room to think, but every time I closed my eyes all I saw was her: the tilt of her chin when she defied me, the flicker of fear she tried to hide when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, sweatpants slung low on my hips, bare-chested, the soft light from the sconce catching on the bruises that painted my ribs. They were a map of every mistake I’d made that week. The road rash across my shoulder looked worse under the mirror’s glare, a patchwork of angry red and dull purple. Now, looking at myself, I couldn’t tell which burned worse: my skin, or the thought of her.

I ran a wet washcloth over the wound again, hissing under my breath. The sting was sharp, grounding. The kind of pain you could control. I’d always been good at that. Pain was simple. Predictable. I took it, bore it, and let it burn through until nothing remained but apathy. I’d learned young how to make a home in that stillness.

People like to talk about redemption as if it’s some bright thing, shining at the end of a tunnel, but as far as I was concerned it didn’t exist. What I’d seen was repetition. Mistaking suffering for purpose. I was good at that too, drowning myself and calling it atonement. I took comfort in knowing exactly where the hurt would land. Cleaner than guilt, and safer than forgiveness. I couldn’t lose what I never tried to keep, and maybe that’s why Lana scared the hell out of me.

She was unpredictable, wild in a way that didn’t come from chaos, but from survival.

I thought I had her clocked from day one; she was just another bored, brittle housewife. A woman who measured worth in diamonds and dinner parties. I’d written her off before I’d looked at her properly. I’d told myself she was shallow, manipulative, hungry for power or wealth, maybe both. The kind of woman who’d trade her conscience for a key to the penthouse.

I had been so fucking wrong. I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more, the looming threat of Damian Costa, or the fact that I wanted her. She was supposed to be my enemy. She was supposed to be Richard’s widow, the woman I was meant to resent, but every time she looked at me, it felt like I was being dragged closer to a line I wasn’t supposed to cross.

I tore my gaze from the mirror and turned on the faucet. The cold water stung when I pressed my hand under it. The burn had started to scab over, but some spots were still weepy.

I peeled off the old bandage, cleaned the wound, and reached for the roll of gauze. My movements were automatic. Wrap, secure, tie. I watched my own hands like they belonged to someone else.

That’s when I heard it. Lana’s scream, muffled but unmistakable.

My heart stopped, and instinct took over. I flew out of the bathroom before my mind had the chance to process what was happening. The suite was dark, shadows stretching long across the carpet. A small amount of blue-tinted light filtered in from the city behind the curtains. My bare feet thudded against the floor as I crossed the living room, wondering for half-a-second if Costa’s men could have found us.

I flung open her door. The curtains were drawn tight, the city beyond nothing more than a dull, distant hum.

Lana thrashed, sheets tangled around her legs, breath hitching in short, panicked bursts. Her face twisted in terror, caught in some hell she couldn’t wake from. Her hair clung to her temples in damp curls. One hand reached for something that wasn’t there; the other clawed at the air like she was trying to fight her way out of it.

I’d seen Lana shaken before, but this was nothing like that. She looked fragile, and seeing her like that made my chest ache.

I just stood there. My body wouldn’t move, even though every instinct screamed at me to go to her. The part of me that had been braced for gunfire, for Costa’s men, didn’t know how to shift the urge to fight into something softer.

Then she cried out again, and I was at her side.

“Lana,” I said, voice rougher than I meant. Gingerly, I sat on the side of the bed and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Lana. Wake up.”

She didn’t stir. Her head tossed, her lips forming words I couldn’t make out. Her breathing came too fast, too shallow.

The sight of it, of her trembling, lost in something I couldn’t see, sent a strange kind of panic through me. I brushed a sweat-slicked curl from her forehead, cupping her cheek in my palm.

“Lana,” I tried again. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked away from me so violently that the back of her skull hit the headboard. She hissed, hands shooting up and clasping the back of her head.

I moved to help her, but she swatted me away. It hit like a fist. The fear there, raw, instinctive, following her out of her dream and landing on me.

I froze, hand still half-raised. “Hey,” I said, careful now, like speaking to a wild animal. “It’s just me.”

Her eyes darted around the room, her chest heaving, confusion giving way to something like recognition. She blinked hard, once, twice, then her expression crumpled.

“Charlie,” she breathed, voice cracking on the word. Then she moved, throwing herself forward, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I caught her on instinct, one hand finding the small of her back. Her whole body shook against mine, breath hitching in uneven bursts. “It’s okay. You’re safe, Lana. Nobody’s here.”

Her tears were warm against my skin, seeping down to my collarbone.