Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates (The Killigrew Street Case Files #3)

Chapter 1

So this was how it ended—not with a bang, but with metal bars and the drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

Even thinking hurt. Copper and dust filled my mouth as I tried to sit up, the world spinning violently sideways. Pain split through my skull like an axe, and I pressed my palms against the cold floor until the spinning stopped.

Concrete. Rough against my cheek where I’d been lying.

A thin strip of grey light filtered down from somewhere above my head. I squinted up through the pounding in my temples and made out a window barely wide enough for a cat. The light was pale, weak. Dawn or dusk—impossible to tell which.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Beyond that, silence. Complete and suffocating.

Where the hell was I?

The cell couldn’t have been more than six feet square. Three walls of solid concrete, one of metal bars that disappeared into darkness beyond. A bucket sat in the corner, its purpose grimly obvious.

My hands shook as I pushed myself upright. The movement sent fresh waves of agony through my head.

What was the last thing I remembered?

Arnos Grove Station. The vampire who hadn’t shown. That sound from the tunnel—like someone in distress.

I’d been such an idiot.

The blow from behind had been sharp, precise. Professional.

After being so careful. After all the nights spent checking over my shoulder—they’d bloody got me.

How long had I been out? Hours? Days?

The team would be looking. They had to be. But this place felt isolated. The kind of place people disappeared into and never came out of.

I’d been so stupid. How could I have been so stupid? And now the others would be in danger because of me.

My breathing quickened. The walls felt closer than they had minutes ago, pressing in like the world’s slowest vise. What if they didn’t give me any water? Had the team even realised I was missing yet?

What if—

My chest tightened. The familiar squeeze that started small and spread outward like spilled ink.

Not now. Not here.

But my body didn’t listen. Never did. My lungs forgot how to work properly, each breath coming shorter than the last. The concrete walls blurred at the edges.

I wasn’t a stranger to panic attacks. They’d been my unwelcome companions for many years. I always got through them, eventually. I knew all the tricks—count to ten, focus on something solid, breathe through my nose.

There, trapped in that cage, the usual tricks felt laughable.

My heart thundered against my ribs like a caged animal. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the chill.

I’m never going to see him again.

The thought seeped through me, solidifying into cold certainty.

I’ll never see his face again.

The air felt thick as soup. Each gulp barely filled my lungs before panic squeezed it out again.

I slumped against the bars, legs shaking.

I was going to die there. Without the chance to say goodbye. Tell him how much he meant to me. I was supposed to meet him at our tree. He had something he wanted to tell me.

Now I’ll never know what he wanted to say.