Forgive Me, Love (Chains of Desire #2)

Chapter One

Serena

Today was my father’s funeral.

Tonight, I’m in Ibiza, drinking like I’m trying to bury him all over again.

The club is a blur of light and heat. “Casablanca” by AFRONOM pounds through the speakers, the bass crawling up my spine until it replaces my heartbeat.

Neon flashes over wet skin and glitter. Bodies collide.

Laughter slices through the air, too loud, too alive.

No one here is mourning anything, and maybe that’s why I came.

The tequila hits. Hard. My tongue burns, my stomach twists, but I keep drinking.

The bartender slams down another tray of shots, whistling like a soldier sending us into battle. Glass clinks, liquid spills. I lift one, tip it back, and swallow the fire.

The forgetting liquid, that’s what I call it. It doesn’t heal. It erases.

The dizziness feels good. My body hums, my mind drifts, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I owe anyone control.

“Shots!” someone screams beside me, a girl with golden skin and too much mascara. I can’t remember her name. I don’t want to. I raise another glass with her anyway, and it burns all the way down.

I’m not sad. Not angry. Not grieving. Just empty in a way that feels peaceful.

Then I hear him.

A man’s voice, low, smooth, thick accent that tastes like sin.

“Dance with me, beautiful.”

He’s behind me before I can turn around. His hands find my hips, slow and certain, his palms warm through the thin fabric of my skirt. The air thickens between us, heavy and electric.

I don’t resist. I move with him.

The music pulses, and our bodies fall into rhythm, his chest against my back, his breath ghosting over my neck. I close my eyes. Not because I trust him, but because I want to forget where I am, who I am.

His fingers trail up, finding my waist, resting against my ribs, dangerously close to my heart. My head spins. The liquor, the heat, the scent of cologne and sea salt, it’s too much and not enough all at once.

For a heartbeat, I let him believe he’s leading.

Then I shift my hips, change the pace, reclaim the rhythm.

Control is a fragile illusion, but tonight it’s mine.

The girl from earlier appears again, her voice cutting through the haze. “Hey, are you okay?”

I smile faintly, turning just enough for her to see I’m fine. “Never better.”

“She’s fine,” the man says from behind me. His tone is cool, territorial. “I’m her husband.”

I almost laugh. My husband. Sure. Let him pretend, too.

The next song bleeds into something darker, Arabic beats, deep and haunting. The lights dim, and the room feels smaller, hotter. He catches my chin, forces my gaze to his. His eyes are sharp and unreadable. He murmurs something in a language I don’t recognize, his breath brushing my lips.

I don’t pull away immediately. I let the silence stretch between us, heavy and charged.

Then I twist out of his grip and turn, moving just far enough to remind him that I’m not his to touch.

The wind from the open terrace hits my back, cool against my bare skin. My top leaves it completely exposed, the air tracing over my shoulder blades like fingertips. Around me, everyone moves without shame, half-naked, glowing under the lights like saints gone to hell.

The whistle sounds again. Another round. Another distraction.

The girl’s hand lands gently on my shoulder. “Do you want me to take you home?”

Home. The word tastes foreign.

“Of course not, silly,” I say, the word bubbling out with a laugh that tastes like tequila. “We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?”

The shot burns all the way down, setting my throat on fire. A burning neck is better than a broken heart. That’s what I tell myself while I move to the beat, hips finding the rhythm, the music pounding hard enough to drown out my thoughts.

“You look pale,” Summer says, her brows pinched. She glances over my shoulder, he’s there again, the so-called husband, waving like we share some secret. I ignore him, roll my eyes, and reach for another shot instead.

“Do you know him?” she asks, voice uncertain.

I shake my head, take her hand, and pull her toward the crowd. “You worry too much,” I mutter. She’s stiff, barely moving, and that kills the mood, so I let her go.

The bass hits deeper, rolling through my bones. I move on my own now, hands in the air, hair clinging to my skin, the salty breeze from the ocean sliding over my back. For a moment, everything disappears: the grief, the noise in my head, the hollow space inside my chest.

Here, I’m just another body moving in the dark. No past. No rules. No pain.

The songs blend together, one endless loop of noise and light. Time slips. By the time I notice the horizon bleeding pink, I’ve lost count of how many shots I’ve had. The sunrise glows over the sea, and it’s beautiful in a way that hurts.

My throat is raw, my lips dry. I reach for water, find none.

My stomach twists, threatening rebellion.

I straighten, refusing to crumble in front of anyone.

I press my lips together, forcing the dryness down, forcing the nausea back where it came from.

My body protests, tight and restless, but I hold still.

I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing it.

Not the thirst, not the weakness, not the way my stomach threatens to turn against me.

I stay upright, rigid, holding myself together through nothing but stubborn will.

Then he appears again, the stranger. The crowd parts for him, like even chaos makes space. He holds out a drink, his voice smooth. “Here. It’ll make you feel better.”

I take it. I don’t think twice.

Rule number one, broken.

That’s the one my bitch of a mother drilled into my head: don’t take drinks from strangers. She should’ve said don’t trust them either, but I learned that lesson on my own.

Rule number two: don’t let anyone near you when you’re unstable. That was my father’s favorite. Too bad rules never saved him.

The man’s smirk stays as he takes my hand, guiding me toward the edge of the club where the sound softens and the air tastes like salt. I let him. Maybe I want to. Maybe I just want something to happen that I didn’t plan.

The light shifts, the crowd fading behind us. My legs feel heavy. The world tilts. Blue eyes flash in my mind, his eyes, and I shove the thought away before it burns. I lock it down tight, swallow the key.

The dizziness deepens. The edges of everything blur. I can barely see his face now.

He says something, low and distant. I don’t catch it. My body tips forward, and strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.

My feet leave the floor. My head falls against his shoulder. The music fades to a heartbeat, and my vision darkens around the edges.

The sea hums somewhere far below. My pulse slows, steady and weak.

I tell myself it can’t get worse than this.

Then the darkness swallows me whole.

My head is splitting open. Every pulse feels like a hammer behind my eyes.

I try to open them, but there’s only darkness. I blink again, harder, thinking maybe I’m still dreaming. No. My eyes are open. Wide open. And I still can’t see a thing.

I try to move my hands, but they don’t move. My wrists are bound behind my back, tight, rough, cutting into skin. Panic surges through me, sharp and cold. I twist, pulling, but the more I fight, the deeper the rope bites.

My feet are tied too.

Something rough and suffocating brushes against my nose. Fabric. A bag. Over my head.

The air inside is hot, stale, full of dust and my own breath. I inhale through my mouth, slow and shaky, trying to stop the panic clawing up my throat. Beneath me, the floor is metal, cold, hard, humming faintly beneath my body.

This is real.

“Help!” The sound comes out hoarse, barely more than a rasp. My throat burns. “Someone help me!”

No one answers.

I pull again, wrists burning, shoulders screaming. The ropes don’t give. My chest tightens as I realize how badly I’ve screwed up. Every reckless choice from last night plays behind my eyelids like a cruel movie reel.

Warm tears spill down my cheeks, but they only make the fabric cling tighter to my face. I suck in a breath, the air tasting like fear and regret.

“HELP!” I scream again, louder this time. My lungs ache.

The door bursts open. Metal scrapes. Two voices.

“She’s awake,” one says. The sound is too close.

“I can see that, idiot,” the other replies.

Footsteps echo. Heavy. Confident.

“Please,” I whisper. My voice trembles, barely audible, but it’s the only thing I can do. I already know they won’t help me.

“The flight is in two hours,” one of them says.

The word hits me like ice, flight. My whole body starts shaking. I’ve read stories about women disappearing, sold, drugged, smuggled. I never thought I’d be one of them.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with her for two hours?” the other asks.

A pause. Then, a chuckle. “I’ve got an idea.”

Their footsteps come closer, and I instinctively push myself backward until my spine hits the cold wall of the van. My heart slams against my ribs.

“Don’t touch me,” I whisper, but it comes out like a breath, not a threat.

Hands grab me, one rough around my arms, the other gripping my jaw. The bag is yanked off, light flooding in, too bright, blinding. My head jerks, trying to turn, but one of them forces it still.

“HELP!” I scream again, louder, desperate.

“Shut up,” the taller one mutters.

A sting pricks my neck.

The burn spreads fast, liquid fire racing through my veins. My body goes heavy, my vision tilts, and the edges of the world melt into static.

I try to stay awake. I try to fight it. But my limbs stop listening.

My last thought, before the darkness swallows me, is my mother’s voice, sharp, mocking, smug.

Rule number one: don’t drink from strangers.

And for once, the bitch was right.