Chapter 1 Dante #2
Her brows knit together in confusion, and before I can process it, her knee slams into my solar plexus.
Pain explodes through my body as I double over, only for her to drive another brutal strike straight into my nose.
The fog clouding my mind vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sharp, searing ache.
I let out a choked groan, my vision flashing white before adrenaline surges through my veins.
Gritting my teeth, I yank the handcuffs from my pocket and snatch her wrists, locking them in place with a sharp click. She barely has time to register the cold metal biting into her skin before she tries to strike again, but I don’t give her the chance.
My hand shoots behind her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as I force her forward, bending her over my knee before delivering a firm shove.
“?Muévete! Move!” I command, my voice rough with lingering pain. “Y no vuelvas a ponerme a prueba, joder. And don’t fucking test me again.”
She laughs at my words—a breathy, almost amused sound that slithers down my spine, leaving an unsettling chill in its wake.
I keep her head bowed, dragging her out of this hellhole, pressing harder against her back the moment she tries to wriggle free.
As soon as the doors swing open, the guard I spoke to earlier snaps his head toward us, his expression contorting in pure shock.
“Dos mujeres han muerto. La tercera necesita asistencia médica. Two women are dead. The third needs medical assistance,” I explain to him quickly before moving ahead. I don’t slow down, don’t acknowledge the flood of questions spilling from his mouth. There’s no time.
She thrashes against my grip, trying to wrench herself free, even stomping down on my toes in a last-ditch effort.
I react instantly, jerking her up and pressing her back against my chest, my arms locking around her like iron.
We just need to get the fuck out of here, and then—maybe—I’ll finally be able to breathe.
“Stop fucking fidgeting,” I snap, lowering my voice as I bring my lips close to her ear. “I’m trying to get you out of here.”
So much for not drawing attention.
A ripple of tension pulses through the prison as dozens of eyes fix on us. Some inmates hurl curses in my direction, their voices sharp and angry, while others cheer for her, their shouts colliding into a chaotic, live buzz that rattles my mind and sets my nerves on edge.
“You were supposed to get here earlier,” she murmurs angrily, and something in her voice sends a strange jolt through me. “You had one job,” she continues, her words dripping with cruel mockery. “And you’re failing at it. How embarrassing.”
Ignoring her, I slam my palm against the back door and shove it open.
The sudden blast of daylight stings my eyes, sending a sharp pain through my skull as I squint against the brightness.
I wasn’t down in that hellhole for long, but it sure as fuck felt like it.
The thought that some prisoners rot down there indefinitely, with no one coming to pull them out, is almost unfathomable.
We advance toward the van, flanked on either side by guards. One of them lifts a cigarette to his lips, takes a final drag, and crushes it under his boot before swinging the van’s back door open. He jerks his chin toward her, signaling her forward with a sharp, impatient motion.
“Entra. Get in.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t hesitate. As she steps inside, I avert my gaze, freezing as my pulse stutters in my chest. Another prisoner sits inside, hands bound tightly behind her back.
At the sight of the menace, she stiffens, a barely perceptible tremor rippling through her frame.
She swallows hard and slides subtly to the side, as if desperate to put every possible inch of distance between them.
“El prisionero 57 debe ser trasladado solo. Prisoner 57 is supposed to be transferred alone,” I say sharply, frustration bleeding into every word. This is a problem—having another prisoner inside makes my job that much harder.
“órdenes de arriba. Orders from above,” one of the guards responds indifferently.
I clamp down on my irritation, jaw tight as I climb inside.
The door slams shut behind me, rattling with a harsh, final thud.
My throat burns with dryness, but I force it down, shaping a neutral expression as I lower myself into a seat opposite the two women.
Every ounce of my attention narrows, locked firmly on my primary target.
June. The fake name she’s using here. The more I look at her, the more absurd it feels—she doesn’t look anything like June. But amid the chaos swirling around us, I need at least some anchor in my mind; without it, I’d sink deeper into confusion.
She meets my gaze, letting her eyes roam over me from head to toe before snapping back to lock onto mine. There’s something there—amusement, perhaps, or maybe a challenge—lingering in the depths of her stare.
As the van lurches forward, I sit up straighter, my hand instinctively drifting toward the gun tucked into my waistband. Beside me, the guard leans against the wall, staring lazily out the window, utterly indifferent to the tension thickening the air.
“I’m kinda into it.” A soft voice drifts through my thoughts, pulling me back.
I snap my head around, locking eyes with her, my gaze questioning.
She tilts slightly to the side, deliberately rattling the handcuffs with a subtle jingle before easing back into her original position. “Just so you know.”
It takes longer than it should for the meaning behind her words to register. My mind is tangled in the weight of this mission, the stress pressing down on me like a vice.
Fuck me.
Heat surges across my face, climbing up my neck and setting my ears ablaze. Embarrassment pulses through me in relentless waves, each one heavier than the last. My eyes widen, and I rake a hand through my hair, grasping for any distraction, anything to anchor me in the moment.
She laughs, revealing perfect teeth, and something shifts inside me—something I shouldn’t be feeling, especially not now. Moments ago, she was punching me, trying to break me, and now she moves with a lightness, a casual ease that slams into me like emotional whiplash, leaving me off balance.
“?Algo gracioso? Something funny?” a guard’s voice slices through the thick tension, asking a question I barely register. I blink, forcing the inappropriate thoughts from my mind, and lock my attention on the way he’s studying her.
“Tu cara. Your face,” she shoots back a reply, laced with sharp, mocking venom.
The muscle under his eye twitches in a small, subtle warning, but I catch it—see the moment he decides to act.
His body stiffens, coiled and ready to do something reckless.
Before he can make a move, I strike. In a single, fluid motion, I yank the gun from my waistband and press the barrel to the side of his head. One shot cracks the air.
His body collapses like a marionette with its strings severed, slumping sideways before rolling onto the floor. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and vivid, pooling against the cold, hard surface.
A sharp scream tears through the van from the other prisoner.
I barely register it as I surge forward, adrenaline spiking to a dangerous high.
I lunge, grabbing the driver’s shoulders just as he tries to draw his gun.
Another shot echoes, and he crumples onto the steering wheel as the van lurches violently to the side.
Shit.
I nearly lose my footing as I wrestle him off and shove him aside, scrambling into his seat. My hands clamp around the wheel, gripping it like a lifeline as I take control.
My heartbeat hammers against my ribs, frantic and caged, desperate to break free. My entire body trembles, not from exhaustion but from the raw rush of what I’ve just done. Then, suddenly, a sharp spike of dread lances through me, like ice injected straight into my veins.
Fragments of memory, unpleasant and jagged, claw their way to the surface, threatening to drag me under.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay grounded, refusing to black out before I finish this fucking mission.
But dread coils in my stomach, tightening like a steel vice, as my mind drags me back to that night—the night that stripped me of everything, leaving behind only a hollow shell filled with the bitter, metallic taste of revenge.
I was nineteen when the accident happened. One moment I was in the car with my parents, and the next, I was barely breathing, a shard of glass lodged perilously close to my heart, countless smaller fragments buried in my skin.
For years, the nightmares hunted me—relentless, merciless things that sank their claws into every hour of sleep I dared to steal.
Recovery dragged on in slow, agonizing increments, and when it was finally over, I emerged with far more than scars carved into my skin.
There were wounds buried deeper—ones time never managed to stitch shut, no matter how many years tried to cover them.
I learned to coexist with my demons. The grief for my parents softened over time, retreating into the background like an old wound that no longer bleeds but flares in pain when disturbed. Yet one thing remained unchanged. It never faded, never dulled, never lessened.
The fear.
Some things set me off—small, stupid things—just like driving this swerving van.
The dread sneaks in first, curling icy fingers around my throat, dragging me back to that night whether I want it or not.
Suddenly, the screams are here again, ripping through my skull.
The warmth of blood soaks into my skin, thick and suffocating, clinging as if it wants to pull me under.
There was so much of it I genuinely thought I might drown.