CHAPTER 8
ZANE
The smell hits me first—thick, cloying . Urine, alcohol, something sour. Something that makes my stomach churn before I even open my eyes. My body feels heavy, every muscle coiled tight, like it already knows what’s coming before my mind catches up.
“I didn’t mean to touch you.”
The voice is small, shaking, full of unshed tears. Something inside me twists.
I freeze.
My skin tingles. My chest tightens. I should move, should run, but I can’t. The couch beneath me shifts into something else—something suffocating. A trap. A nightmare I can’t wake up from. I shouldn’t have slept here.
“You look so much like him…” The voice wavers. I don’t want to hear the rest. I want to disappear, to sink into the floor, for this house to swallow me whole. “You’re beautiful like him.”
I swallow hard. Disgust curdles in my gut, tangling with fear, and suddenly, the world tilts. My vision flickers, crumbling into something else.
Not her.
Her.
A hot nail of despair drives straight into my skull.
Please don’t hurt him!
The voice screams inside me, raw and endless.
Please! Please!
My eyes snap open, heavy with the weight of the dream. Reality seeps back in, but the feeling lingers, clinging to my skin like something rotten.
I stand. My body still doesn’t feel like mine, but I force my legs to move, to carry me into the living room.
The first week back in LA is always the hardest. My body has to adjust to the new environment, and that usually means nightmares. It's not something I deal with all the time, but it hits when I change settings or sleep in unfamiliar places, and it sucks.
I had planned to stay at the hotel with Carter, but I decided it would be better to rent an apartment so I can be with Mia while I’m here.
It’s not that I don’t trust Carter, but I think it’s important for Mia to have some time to adjust before she’s around unfamiliar men.
I know eventually I'll need Carter to help keep an eye on her while I work, but for now, I’ll take it one step at a time.
I grab my sketchbook, let the graphite scrape against the paper, tracing frantic lines. I try to get lost in it. To forget.
Then, movement.
I glance up. Mia is standing there, silent, watching me.
A shiver prickles down my spine.
“You should announce yourself,” I mutter, voice lower than I intended. “That’s creepy.”
I called Charlie and told her everything that happened at the restaurant—how Mia seemed completely convinced that someone was there and that she had killed them, even though no one had been there, and nothing had happened.
At first, I was terrified. She sounded so sure of herself, her voice steady, but there was something off about the way she spoke, like she was trapped in her own reality.
It was subtle—her eyes darting around, her expressions shifting too quickly—but in the end, it was all just in her mind.
I couldn’t ignore the strange disconnect, the way she seemed both present and not at the same time.
I'm starting to realize that Mia sees the world through a different lens, and until I can understand how to handle it and regain some control, I need to tread carefully.
She seems fine—or at least, I think so.
I don’t want to keep her confined here; I want to give her the freedom to explore LA, to experience some independence.
As much as part of me enjoys seeing the joy on her face, I believe this needs to be her journey, and for that, I have to let her be free.
Besides, I’ll be busy over the next few weeks with publicity for LA TikTokers, attending events, and I need to stay focused on that.
“Sorry?” She tilts her head, confusion flickering across her face.
But the dream is still there, coiling in my skull. The screams, the echoes—I can’t tell what’s more real.
Mia steps closer, her gaze flicking to my sketchbook. She studies the lines in quiet curiosity.
“That’s Medusa, isn’t it?” Her voice is soft, hesitant.
I follow her stare. Medusa’s face emerges from the shadows of the page, her expression not just rage, but something deeper. Something hollow.
"Yes, it's Medusa," I murmur, my throat dry. "A lot of survivors of sexual abuse get that tattoo. A symbol of strength. Of taking back their power."
Mia frowns. “Sexual abuse?”
My stomach knots. I watch her for a long second before exhaling, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s when someone touches you without your consent. When you don’t want them to.”
She blinks, as if absorbing the words. Her gaze shifts, looking past me—past the room—at something far away. Something I can’t see.
“That’s ironic,” she murmurs. “My body was never mine to choose. I was born to serve my future husband. Or my master.”
A slow, dull ache spreads through my chest.
Then she looks up at me, searching, her voice barely above a whisper.
“So you’re telling me they were wrong?”
I stare at her. My throat tightens, something thick and suffocating lodged there.
I don’t know why it takes me so long to answer.
But when I do, my voice is hoarse.
“Yes, Mia. They were wrong.”
“You don’t have to look at me like that.”
Her words pull me back. I would blink if I wasn’t so tangled in my own thoughts.
I frown. “Like what?”
“Like I’m in pain,” she says simply. Her tone is light, too light, like what we’re talking about isn’t anything heavy. “I’m fine. I’m happy to be traveling.”
And then she smiles.
It’s so pure. So genuine. And it nearly breaks me in half.
Not because I pity her.
But because they spent years hammering it into her that this is normal. That this is okay.
To the point where she doesn’t even recognize how fucked up it is.
A slow burn rises in my chest. Anger. Sadness. Something I don’t have a name for.
Mia studies me, her wide eyes filled with confusion. “You look angry. Did I say something wrong?”
I take a breath. Let it out slowly. Try to force the tension from my shoulders before answering.
“No, Mia. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I manage a smile.
She doesn’t hesitate before smiling back, nodding like that’s all she needed. Like that’s the answer to everything.
“You’re good,” she says, pointing at my notebook. “I read her story.”
I pause. Surprised. “I thought you were in a cage.”
Mia shrugs. “At times.”
She hesitates, then adds, “To be honest, at one point, I kind of lost track of where I really was. But I was raised in a basement, at first. It had some stuff, and Katie taught me how to read and write. I liked Greek mythology. It was fun.” She pauses, like she’s sorting through old memories. “I also lived in my master’s house for a while. But I wasn’t allowed to leave the wing assigned to me.”
I exhale. “So you never saw the sun.”
“Not really,” she says. “I just never got to feel it on my skin. Never got to step outside. But I could watch TV, read, play instruments… So I’m not completely out of touch with reality.” She grins, like it’s a joke.
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I say nothing.
And Mia doesn’t seem to mind the silence. She talks and I listen.
“I had a lot of training, you know? Nothing too crazy, just the usual stuff. They tested me, pushed me, and taught me how to hide my feelings. It’s funny, really—after everything they threw at me, I just got better at killing. The cage was mostly for when I misbehaved or when they needed my monster to come out and play. Sometimes, I’d get a little too excited with the whole torture thing. The blood? It was kind of fun—really satisfying , actually. But hey, my master always said it was about the quality, not the quantity. So, there’s that!”
I stare at her, somewhat speechless, as she casually describes the horrors she endured there, like they were just everyday occurrences—like she had never known there could be any other way to live.
The calmness in her voice, the complete lack of surprise or disgust—it’s unsettling, as if those things were nothing more than a natural part of her world.
“Oh, and, I had some friends at the brothel who got tattoos too.” Her voice takes on a distant quality, something wistful, like she’s reminiscing. “That’s how I got these.” She rolls up her sleeve, revealing dark ink along her arm.
Then, she looks at her leg.
And the smile vanishes.
“This one was a punishment,” she murmurs. “I didn’t choose it.”
Her voice stays light. Sweet. Too sweet. Like it’s just another fact. Like it doesn’t mean anything.
For a second, I can’t move.
Then, I force myself to look.
The axe scar carved into her skin. The big J , the handcuffs burned into her flesh.
I swallow hard. My chest tightens, something deep and unbearable settling in my ribs.
Mia watches me carefully. She doesn’t say anything.
I exhale, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them.
“Do you want to cover it?” My voice is lower than I intended.
She blinks, tilting her head.
“Cover it?”
"Yes." I tilt the notebook slightly, as if that somehow explains everything. "You can choose a design, and I’ll cover it up. That way, it’ll be your choice."
Her eyes flicker with something I can’t quite name.
"Would you really do that?" Her voice is quiet, hesitant.
"Yeah." My voice is quiet but firm. "It's your choice. From now on, you get to decide what you want, okay?"
Mia looks at me like I’ve just spoken in another language.
Then, she licks her lips. "Why would you let me do that?"
My chest tightens. The way she says it—like she doesn’t believe she deserves a choice—makes something coil hot and sharp inside me. I lean forward, meeting her gaze head-on.
"Because it’s your body, Mia. Your life." My voice is rougher than I meant, but she needs to hear this. "No one gets a say in that but you."
She blinks rapidly, her throat bobbing as if she’s swallowing something heavy.
"Promise me you’ll remember that from now on?"
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick. Loaded.
Then, Mia smiles. It’s small, but real. A soft blush colors her cheeks.
She nods. "I promise."
Something in my chest eases.
"Good." I close the notebook. "I can’t sleep. My tattoo supplies are here. Do you have anything in mind yet?"
Mia shifts on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her while the other stretches out, revealing the tattoo she wants to erase. The axe. The J . The handcuffs. Each one a scar, inked into her skin. A brand of what they did to her.
She runs her fingers over it slowly, tracing the lines, almost like she’s truly seeing it for the first time.
"I want Medusa."
My hand stills over the ink bottles. I glance at her.
Mia meets my gaze, her eyes bright with that restless energy of hers. But this time, there’s something steadier beneath it.
Something resolved.
I swallow. "Are you sure?"
She shrugs, effortless. "Medusa was turned into a monster because of what was done to her. But she became something strong, right? No longer a victim."
My grip tightens around the needle.
Yes.
Exactly that.
I nod, pushing down the lump in my throat. I start preparing the ink, choosing the right shades, adjusting the needles. It’s routine. Muscle memory. But this time, every motion feels heavier, more deliberate.
Silence settles over us, filled only by the soft hum of the equipment and the quiet rhythm of Mia’s breathing.
I turn to her.
"I need to touch you to position the stencil."
She blinks. "Hm.”
I wait.
Mia tilts her head, frowning. "What?"
I allow myself a small smile. "Did you understand what I said?"
"Yes. You said you needed to touch me." She waves a hand, impatient. "So what?"
I hold her gaze.
"So, you have to give me permission first."
This silence is different. Heavier.
Mia’s lips part slightly, like she’s about to laugh. But she doesn’t.
She just stares at me. Waiting. Expecting me to say something else—maybe explain the joke.
"Permission?" she echoes.
I nod. "If you don’t want me to, I won’t. It’s that simple."
Her expression doesn’t shift right away. But something shifts inside her. I see it in the way her shoulders tighten, in the way her breath hitches.
Mia exhales a small, almost disbelieving laugh.
"That’s weird."
"Why?"
She bites her lip. "Because… no one ever asked."
My jaw clenches.
Anger surges through me, but I shove it down. Now isn’t the time.
Mia lifts her gaze again, studying me like I’m some kind of rare, foreign creature.
I lean in slightly, my fingers hovering over her leg but not touching.
"Mia." My voice drops, low and steady. "Can I touch you?"
Her expression shifts.
For a moment, she looks lost—not like she doesn’t know the answer, but like she doesn’t know what she should feel.
Then, slowly, she nods.
"You can."
My fingers brush her skin, light, barely there. Just enough to press the stencil into place.
I see the way she reacts.
It’s not fear.
Not discomfort.
It’s something else. Something she doesn’t even have a name for.
The tattoo machine whirs to life. I focus on the lines, on the smooth strokes of ink bringing Medusa to life.
The silence stretches between us, comfortable.
Then, Mia speaks.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I’ve felt worse."
Not the answer I wanted.
But I keep going.
I lose myself in the details—the curve of the serpents, the piercing stare of Medusa’s eyes. It’s coming together, piece by piece.
Then, Mia’s voice cuts through the quiet.
"Do you really believe that?"
I pause. "Believe what?"
She tilts her head slightly. "That I can choose."
I exhale.
"Yes, Mia. I believe it."
She watches me for a long time. Then, out of nowhere—
She smiles.
Not small. Not hesitant.
A real, genuine smile.
And for the first time, I realize something.
I like her smiles.