25. Lydia
TWENTY-FIVE
LYDIA
I wake up choking on the smell.
The air is thick, stale, and cloying, like a mixture of rust and rot has soaked into the walls.
It’s the scent of blood.
Not fresh.
Old.
Like it’s seeped into the cracks of the concrete long ago and never left.
It coats my tongue, making me gag as I try to swallow against the dry ache in my throat. My mouth is dry, lips cracked and parched.
How long have I been out?
I blink, my vision blurry as I struggle to focus. The world tilts, spinning, as nausea twists in my stomach, but I force myself to breathe.
In. Out. Focus.
The dim light overhead buzzes faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cold, gray walls.
Concrete.
No windows.
No doors in sight.
Basement.
Panic coils low in my belly, spreading like a virus as reality crashes down on me.
I’m not at home.
I’m not safe.
Trip…
The last thing I remember is opening the door. I’d been up playing. Trip was asleep on the couch.
But I hadn’t been careful. I thought…
The knock was soft.
Too normal.
My heart had skipped, but I ignored the warning crawling up my spine. I thought it was the delivery we’d been waiting for. Trip passed out after we ordered it.
But it wasn’t.
“Miss me, princess?” Patrick’s voice was the last thing I heard before the rag covered my mouth.
The chemical scent burned, sharp and bitter, filling my lungs as I struggled.
I fought. But I wasn’t fast enough. Now, I’m here.
Wherever the fuck here is.
I try to move.
Nothing.
My wrists, bound behind my back. My ankles, tied tight, cutting into my skin.
Rope.
Thick, coarse, and unrelenting as it bites into my flesh with every tiny shift.
No slack. No give.
The concrete floor is ice against my bare skin. I’m still in the tank top and panties I was wearing when I opened the door, but now they are soaked with sweat, clinging to me like a second skin.
The cold is seeping in, making me shiver as I struggle to stay still, but it isn’t just the temperature.
It’s the fear.
The air is too heavy.
Too still.
Like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
I strain to listen, but all I hear is the buzzing light and the sound of my own shallow breaths echoing off the walls.
Alone.
But I’m not. I can feel him.
“Awake already?”
The voice comes from the shadows. Low. Smooth. But underneath the surface, Something cracks. A chill slides down my spine, and my pulse pounds harder. I don’t need to see him to know who it is.
Patrick.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, footsteps echoing as he steps into view. His boots click against the concrete– slow, deliberate, each step sending a jolt of dread through my veins.
“Didn’t think you’d wake up this fast.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this to be a nightmare.
Wake up.
Please, wake up.
But the scraping of metal echoes through the room, dragging reality back into sharp focus.
I open my eyes.
Patrick crouches in front of me, elbows on his knees, head tilted as he studies me like I’ma specimen under glass.
“Miss me?”
His smile is wrong. It isn’t charming. It isn’t warm.
It’s empty.
Like there’s nothing human left in him. If there ever was to begin with. My stomach twists as I force my breathing to slow, trying to push the panic down. I won’t let him see it. I won’t give him that power.
“Go to hell.”
My voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but I force the words out through clenched teeth. Patrick’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows.
“Still mouthy. Trip thinks he’s smart, installing cameras, monitors, and trackers–” he sneers. “I jammed his little toys in under a minute.”
He reaches out, his gloved fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. I flinch, but I can’t move. The ropes bite deeper into my wrists as I struggle against them, but they don’t budge.
My skin is raw, burning where the fibers have already started to dig in.
No leverage. No way out.
“Let me go.”
It isn’t a plea. It is a demand. But Patrick just laughs.
“Not happening, sweetheart.”
His head tilts again, eyes narrowing as if he’s studying me.
“Not until we’re done.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
We.
My blood runs cold.
“Don’t look so scared, baby.”
Patrick’s grin is slow, predatory, as he stands and starts pacing around me.
“After everything we’ve been through– I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
I keep my head down, breathing through my nose, trying to steady the pounding in my chest. I won’t play his game. Don’t engage. Don’t speak.
“Nothing to say?”
Patrick’s boots stop inches away.
“Not even a little thank you for saving you from that psycho?”
My head snaps up before I can stop it.
“Trip is not the psycho in this situation.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. Patrick’s expression darkens.
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
He crouches again, face too close, his breath brushing against my cheek.
“That he’s protecting you?”
I clench my jaw, refusing to answer. Don’t let him get inside your head.
“Does he fuck you better, Lydia?”
The words are a whisper now. Soft. Dangerous.
“Does he make you scream the way I did?” I freeze. My stomach churns as bile climbs up my throat.
“Bet he doesn’t.” Patrick’s smile is sharper now. Cruel. “Bet he doesn’t know how filthy you get when you’re begging for it.”
My throat tightens. Don’t react. Don’t let him see.
“Still quiet?”
Patrick’s fingers trail down my jaw.
“Don’t worry, baby.”
The knife is in his hand before I see him move. Cold steel. Pressing lightly against my throat.
“I’ll fix that.” What follows is hell. Time stops. Seconds stretch into eternity as Patrick drags me through his sick, twisted version of punishment.
He doesn’t have to hit me. He doesn’t need to. The words are enough. Every question…
“Do you think he loves you?”
“Does he know how weak you are?”
“Do you think he’ll save you in time?”
…a knife, cutting deeper than any blade. I hold on as long as I can. But Patrick is relentless . Pushing. Prodding. Chipping away at the walls I’ve built around myself until they are crumbling.
“Shhh…” Patrick’s voice is softer now. Like a lover’s whisper. “Don’t fight it, baby.”
My body trembles. My mind– close to breaking. And that’s when I hear it.
*Boom
Faint. Distant. My breath catches. Another sound. Louder.
*BOOM
The walls shake.
Patrick’s head snaps toward the door. I feel it before I see it. Trip. The growl that rumbles from my throat is primal. Patrick’s eyes meet mine, and for the first time…
I see fear.
Trip is coming, and Patrick isn’t ready.