Chapter 13 #2
"No?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something interesting he found under a rock.
"You spread your legs for me often enough.
Sucked my cock when you needed a fix. Did things that would make your biker husband sick if he knew.
" He reaches out, trails a finger down my cheek.
"You were mine, Vanna. You just didn't know it yet. "
I spit in his face.
The backhand comes fast and hard.
My head snaps to the side, stars exploding behind my eyes.
I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"That's going to cost you," Virgil says, wiping my spit from his face with a calm that's more terrifying than any rage. "Everything has a price, Vanna. You should know that by now."
He stands and walks to the table.
My heart pounds as I watch him sort through the syringes, the bags, the tools of destruction that almost killed me.
"You know what I think?" he says, his back to me.
"I think you never really got clean. I think you just traded one addiction for another.
The biker. The baby. The fantasy of a normal life.
" He turns, a syringe in his hand, filled with something clear.
"But deep down, you're still the same junkie whore who used to do anything for a hit. And I'm going to prove it."
"No." The word comes out broken. Desperate. "Please. I'm pregnant. You can't—"
"I can do whatever I want." He crosses back to me, grabs my face with one hand, forcing me to look at him. "That's what you never understood, Vanna. I own you. I've always owned you. And now I'm going to remind you what that means."
He holds up the syringe, letting the light catch the liquid inside.
"One hit," he says softly. "That's all it takes. One hit, and all that progress you've made goes up in smoke. One hit, and you're right back where you started. Crawling, begging, doing whatever I tell you to do."
"Please." Tears stream down my face. "Please, I have a baby. I can't—"
"The baby." He laughs. "You think I care about the baby? That thing is just leverage. Something to keep your husband in line once I've broken you."
He grabs my arm, pushes up my sleeve.
I thrash, fighting against the zip ties, but there are hands on my shoulders now—his men, holding me still.
"No!" I scream. "No, please, no—"
But Virgil's not listening.
He's focused on my arm, searching for a vein, the syringe poised and ready.
Something snaps inside me.
I think about the baby. About Garrett. About all the work I've done, all the pain I've survived, all the reasons I have to stay clean.
And I think: Not like this. I am not going to let this monster win.
I wrench my body sideways with everything I have.
The movement throws off the men holding me, and my arm jerks free just as Virgil pushes the needle forward.
It catches my skin, draws blood, but doesn't hit the vein.
"Goddamnit!" Virgil snarls.
I keep fighting.
Kicking, thrashing, screaming.
I don't care about the pain, don't care about the hands trying to hold me down.
I just know that needle cannot go into my vein.
That poison cannot get into my body, into my baby's body.
One of the men punches me in the stomach.
The pain is blinding.
I double over, gasping, my bound hands useless behind my back.
Terror floods through me—the baby, oh God, the baby—
"Enough." Virgil's voice is cold. "Hold her still. I don't care if you have to break her arms."
They grab me again, harder this time.
One of them has his hand around my throat, squeezing just enough to make it hard to breathe.
Another is pinning my arm to the chair.
Virgil approaches with the syringe.
"I was going to make this gentle," he says. "A nice, easy high for old times' sake. But you had to fight. You always have to fight." He presses the needle against my arm again. "So, now I'm going to make it hurt."
I close my eyes.
I think about Garrett. About the baby. About the life we were supposed to have.
And then I do the only thing I can think of.
I go limp.
Completely, totally limp. Like I've given up. Like the fight has gone out of me.
The hands on my body relax, just slightly. Just for a second.
And in that second, I throw my head forward with every ounce of strength I have left.
My forehead connects with Virgil's nose.
There's a crunch, a spray of blood, and he stumbles backward, screaming.
"You fucking bitch!"
The syringe falls from his hand, hits the floor, shatters.
The drugs seep into the dirty wood, wasted.
I didn't get high. I didn't relapse. I won.
It's a small victory. A tiny one. And I know I'm going to pay for it.
But for one moment, I beat him.
The beating lasts a long time.
He doesn't use his fists at first.
He uses his words.
Tells me everything he's going to do to me.
Everything he's going to let his men do to me.
The buyers he's going to sell me to, the things they'll pay extra for.
Then he uses his fists.
I lose track of the blows.
My face, my ribs, my back.
He's careful not to hit my stomach—not out of mercy, but because he wants the baby alive.
Leverage, he said.
Something to keep my husband in line.
At some point, I stop screaming.
Stop begging. I just curl into myself and wait for it to be over.
And then it gets worse.
He dismisses his men.
Sends them outside to keep watch.
And when we're alone, when there's no one to witness what he's about to do, he crouches down beside me and speaks in a voice that's almost gentle.
"I was going to wait," he says. "Build up to it. Make you want it, the way you used to. But you ruined that, didn't you? So, now I'm just going to take what I'm owed."
I know what's coming.
I've known since the moment I woke up in that vehicle.
But knowing doesn't prepare you.
Nothing can prepare you.
"Please," I whisper. "Please, don't."
"Don't beg. It's pathetic." He stands, starts unbuckling his belt. "Besides, it's not like this is your first time. You used to let me do whatever I wanted, remember? When you needed a fix bad enough."
"I'm not that person anymore."
"We'll see."
He grabs me by the hair and drags me toward the mattress in the corner.
I fight—I try to fight—but my body is broken, my hands still bound, my strength gone.
I think about Garrett.
About the fire he survived, the sister he saved.
About the way he looks at me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting.
I think about the baby.
The tiny life inside me, depending on me to keep it safe.
I think about all the things I still want to do.
Watch my child take its first steps.
Grow old with my husband.
Make up for all the years I lost to addiction.
I can survive this. I have to survive this.
So, I go somewhere else in my mind.
I float up and away, to a place where the pain can't reach me.
I think about the nursery Tildie's been planning—sage green walls and a white crib and soft blankets.
I think about Garrett's hand on my stomach, feeling the baby kick.
I think about NA meetings and bad coffee and the words I've said a dozen times: My name is Vanna, and I'm an addict.
I am an addict, but I am so much more than that.
And when this is over—when Virgil has taken what he wants and left me broken on this filthy mattress—I will still be here.
I will still be fighting.
I will still be alive.
That's the only victory that matters.
Time loses meaning.
I don't know how long I lie there after he's done.
Minutes. Hours.
The cabin is dark now, the bare bulb turned off, the only light coming from a crack under the door.
I can hear voices outside—Virgil and his men, talking about something.
The club, maybe.
Or their next move.
Or me.
I don't care about any of it.
I care about the baby.
My body feels like it belongs to someone else.
Every inch of me hurts—my face swollen and throbbing, my ribs screaming with every breath, deeper pains I don't want to think about.
But the physical pain is almost a relief.
It gives me something to focus on.
Something other than the memory of what just happened on that mattress.
I shift, groaning at the agony that explodes through my body, and press my bound hands against my stomach.
It's awkward, uncomfortable, the zip ties cutting deeper into my wrists as I contort to reach.
But I need to feel.
I need to know.
For a long moment, there's nothing.
Just stillness.
Just my own ragged breathing and the distant murmur of voices and the terrible, crushing fear that I've lost everything.
And then—
A kick.
Small but strong.
A tiny foot or fist pressing against my palm, pushing back against the darkness.
I sob with relief.
The sound tears out of me, raw and broken, and I don't care if they hear.
I don't care about anything except this: my baby is alive.
After everything—the drugs they tried to give me, the punch to my stomach, the assault—my baby is alive.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice raw from screaming. "I'm so sorry, baby. Mommy's so sorry."
I curl around my stomach, protecting it as best I can, and let the tears come.
I cry for the baby. For Garrett.
For the life I was building that might already be destroyed.
I cry for the girl I used to be—the addict who let men like Virgil use her, who thought she didn't deserve better.
And I cry for the woman I've become—the mother, the wife, the survivor—who fought so hard only to end up here.
But even as I cry, something else is building inside me. Something that feels like steel.
I didn't break.
Virgil did everything he could to destroy me.
He beat me, violated me, tried to drag me back into addiction.
And I'm still here.
Still fighting. Still protecting my child.
That has to mean something, right?
"I'm sorry," I whisper again, pressing my hands tighter against my stomach. "But I need you to be strong a little longer. Mommy's going to get us out of this. Daddy's coming. I promise, baby. Daddy's coming."
I don't know if that's true.
I don't know if Garrett even knows I'm gone yet.
The meeting was supposed to be a trap—but it was a trap for them, not for Virgil.
He knew.