Chapter 23
A tremor ripplesthrough my body as I hug my legs closer to my chest. Resting my head on my knees, I inhale slow, methodical breaths and close my eyes. It doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or closed; there is no light in the room. But something about closing my eyes gives me comfort.
A loud gurgle sounds from my stomach seconds before it twists into a vicious cramp. The last thing I ate was a measly fistful of stale crackers thrown at my face. The last thing I drank was a small bottle of water, also tossed at my head.
Both were… days ago. At least, I think it was days ago. I have no fucking clue.
Time doesn’t exist in this hellhole.
My mind drifts to Oliver. The absolute terror on his face seconds before a hood was dropped over my head. His thrashing and screaming as he fought one of our assailants repeats like an endless nightmare.
Is he here?
Is he locked in a cell like this one?
Is he alone and scared and as worried about me as I am for him?
Please, don’t let him be here.
I did this. I opened the lid to Pandora’s box, let the monsters out, led them straight to us, and all but identified myself when I put on that fucking hat at the festival.
Stupid. Fucking. Idiot.
Music comes on outside of the room and is cranked to a deafening volume. Since I woke up in this place, I have learned music means one thing. Torture. They use fast-paced, squealy rock music to mask the screams as people are beaten.
I know this because it has happened to me.
The shiver-inducing screech of the metal hinges mingles with the violent music as the door to my cell is opened. Bright light infiltrates the room and I wince.
A large man stands in the doorway, his biceps thicker than my thighs. I’ve seen him twice before now—when he threw crackers at my face and sometime later when he came in to punch and kick me for several minutes.
“There you are,” he says in a robotic voice. “Our new pretty toy.”
My fingers curl into fists as I press my back to the wall. “I’m not yours,” I bite out, though the words don’t sound as harsh in my dehydrated state.
Mechanical-sounding laughter bounces off the walls as he steps farther into my cell. “That’s where you’re wrong. The second you started chatting with us online, you were ours. We just waited for the perfect opportunity.”
“Huh?”
He takes another step closer and shakes his head. “We’ve been doing this a long fucking time. We do our research too. Not hard to weed out the impostors when you know your audience.”
I may not be some sick and twisted pervert looking to buy, corrupt and destroy people, but I think I played the part well. Hell, I barely spoke with anyone. For the most part, I loitered.
But maybe that was the biggest red flag.
These bastards don’t linger. They’re eager for every scrap of filth they can get their hands on from the start.
“Noted.” I lift my gaze to meet his. “Just let me go home. I don’t even know where the hell I am. I won’t tell a soul.”
He scoffs as he closes the small distance between us and squats down.
“You still don’t get it.”
I stare at him and try to puzzle out what he means. With a lack of food and water, my brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. I’m not connecting the dots.
Rising to his feet, he digs into a pocket of his cargo pants. He sets a small bottle of water next to my feet. From another pocket, he removes a different container and deposits it next to the bottle, the contents unidentifiable.
“You are home, Two Sixty-Three. Best you get used to the accommodations.”