Chapter 16
ELENA
The room had no windows.
It smelled of damp concrete, old blood, and the faint metallic tang of fear—mine, mostly.
The scent clung to the walls like a memory that refused to fade.
I sat on the cold floor, knees pulled tightly to my chest, my back pressed against the rough wall as if it could somehow anchor me.
My sundress—once light and flowing—was now torn at the hem and stained with dirt and dried blood that wasn’t entirely mine. The fabric clung to my skin like a reminder of everything that had already happened.
My wrists and ankles weren’t bound.
No ropes.
No cuffs.
That detail unsettled me more than restraints ever could.
The door was steel-reinforced. The lock electronic. The vents too narrow to crawl through. Even if I managed to break the light or force the hinges, there were guards outside.
This wasn’t carelessness.
It was control.
Escape wasn’t an option.
Waiting was.
Harris stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate.
His suit was immaculate—black fabric pressed perfectly, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Not a speck of dirt clung to him, as if he had stepped into a different world from this decaying room.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like one might examine a damaged asset.
“Whom did you think had you kidnapped while your six brothers were trying to smuggle you to New York seven years ago?” he asked.
His voice was smooth. Amused. Almost conversational.
The words hit deeper than the tone.
My jaw tightened.
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze despite the tremor in my body.
My heart hammered so violently I could feel it pounding against my ribs.
“You?” I asked.
It wasn’t fear that shaped the question.
It was suspicion.
He smiled—thin, calculating.
“No.”
The door hissed open behind him.
The sound sliced through the room like a blade.
“Me,” a new voice said.
The temperature in my veins dropped.
My breath stalled.
I knew that voice.
Harris stepped aside without protest, making room as if the real authority had just entered.
Hargrove walked into the dim light.
The same greasy smile.
The same predatory glint in his eyes.
He looked older now—thinner, sharper around the edges.
His gaze traveled over me deliberately.
Like I was property he’d reclaimed.
“You kicked me in my office until I passed out,” he said, stopping a few feet away.
His voice was low. But beneath it simmered resentment that had clearly been festering for a long time.
“Do you really think I’d ever let you go after that?”
My stomach twisted.
Everything clicked into place at once.
The masked men who had kidnapped me — snatching me away from my six brothers on the way to New York after I had just been released from prison...
It was him.
My former boss.
The man who had fired me because I rejected his advances.
It hadn’t been random.
It hadn’t been some unknown enemy.
It had been him.
Revenge.
Punishment for saying no.
Punishment for humiliating him in his own office.
For fighting back.
For refusing to submit.
My fingers curled into fists so tight my nails pierced my palms. Warm blood pooled against my skin, grounding me.
“You planned that?” I asked, my voice shaking but not breaking.
Hargrove’s smile widened.
“From the moment you humiliated me.”
Humiliated.
As if defending myself had been an insult to his ego.
He took another step closer.
“You thought I would forgive and forget?”
The words barely left his lips before the memory of when I was trapped inside his warehouse — where he kept me after he kidnapped me — detonated in my head.
His weight crushing me.
His hands forcing.
His men standing nearby—laughing.
The smell of alcohol on his breath.
The way he had taken what he wanted while I screamed until my throat burned raw and no sound came out.
The helplessness.
The shame.
The rage that had kept me alive when despair tried to swallow me.
I didn’t think.
I moved.
I launched myself off the floor and drove my fist straight into his jaw.
The impact was solid.
Satisfying.
His head snapped sideways and he staggered back, surprise flashing across his face.
I didn’t give him time to recover.
Another punch—this one landing square across his nose.
Cartilage cracked under my knuckles.
Blood burst.
He cursed.
A third strike followed—aimed at his temple.
His knees buckled.
I stepped forward and drove my knee into his groin.
He doubled over with a strangled gasp.
“Hargrove, fucking defend yourself!” Harris barked, taking a cautious step back but not intervening.
Good.
He wasn’t planning to jump in—yet.
Hargrove swung blindly at me.
His fist grazed my shoulder.
I ducked under it effortlessly, using the momentum to drive my elbow into his floating ribs.
A sharp crack.
He wheezed.
I hooked my foot behind his ankle and shoved.
He crashed to the floor.
Hard.
Dust rose around us.
For a second, I stood over him—breathing heavily, heart racing, adrenaline flooding my system.
Then I moved again.
I dropped onto his chest and pinned him beneath me.
His eyes widened in shock.
“Get—off—” he gasped.
I didn’t let him finish.
My fists came down.
Precise. Relentless.
Nose.
Cheekbone.
Eye socket.
Each blow fueled by memory.
His breath on my neck.
His laughter while his men held me down.
The way he had told me resistance only made it worse.
Blood sprayed across my knuckles and splattered onto the floor.
His face began to distort under the force of my strikes.
Pain twisted across his features.
He tried to raise his arms to shield himself, but I grabbed his wrists and slammed them back down.
“You don’t get to touch me again,” I spat.
Another punch.
“Ever.”
Another.
“Again.”
His head jerked violently with each impact until his resistance weakened.
Harris laughed.
It was sharp. Incredulous. Almost entertained.
“A woman beating a man unconscious...” He shook his head as if impressed despite himself. “Incredible.”
He reached into his jacket slowly, pulling out a lighter and a cigarette with deliberate calm. The metal clicked. Flame sparked.
He brought it to his lips, inhaling as smoke curled into the stale air.
He exhaled lazily.
“Keep going,” he said, leaning back against the wall like we were watching a private performance. “I’m enjoying the show.”
I barely registered his voice.
When Hargrove finally went limp—his body collapsing under the weight of my rage—his eyes rolled back and his mouth fell open in a slack, broken expression.
I stopped.
Chest heaving.
Knuckles split open and bleeding so badly my hands felt slick.
The silence after violence was deafening.
I stared down at him.
Broken.
Ruined.
The man who had believed himself untouchable was now sprawled at my feet like trash thrown aside.
Something inside me snapped.
My body moved before my mind could fully process what I was doing.
I lunged for movement—not away—but forward.
Harris’s dagger was strapped to his belt.
I saw it.
I grabbed it.
Swift. Practiced.
His hand shot toward his gun the moment he realized what I intended—but I was already faster.
Training.
Instinct. Survival.
I drove the blade down.
It sank deep into Hargrove’s groin.
He screamed.
His body jerked violently under me.
I pulled the knife out and stabbed again—deliberate. Targeting the place where power had always translated into dominance for him.
Blood poured.
He convulsed.
“STOP—” he choked.
I didn’t stop.
Not when I drove the blade toward his face.
The knife struck his right eye with a sickening resistance before it gave way.
Wet pop.
Warm fluid splattered across my fingers.
He shrieked—a sound so raw it barely resembled human.
I ripped the blade free and plunged it into the left eye.
Blind now.
He thrashed weakly, arms flailing, hands clawing at nothing.
I leaned over him and stabbed again.
Face.
Throat.
Chest.
Each strike was fueled by everything he had done to me.
Every night.
Every violation.
Every time he told me resistance made it worse.
The knife carved through skin and muscle until his features blurred into something unrecognizable.
Until the man who haunted my nightmares no longer existed.
My arm finally froze mid-strike.
The blade slipped from my hand and clattered against the concrete floor.
The sound echoed loudly.
A scream tore from my throat.
It erupted from somewhere deep and primal—an animal sound that held grief and rage and release all at once.
I stumbled backward.
My legs gave out.
I slid down the wall until I was sitting in the corner, trembling.
Blood coated me.
His blood.
It soaked my dress, smeared across my arms, splattered on my face.
Tears cut clean paths through the red mess on my cheeks.
I had never killed before.
I had just murdered a man.
The realization hit like cold water.
And the worst part?
It had felt powerful.
It had felt justified.
It had felt good.
Until it didn’t.
The adrenaline drained from my body in a violent rush.
Shaking started.
First in my fingers.
Then my arms.
Then my entire body.
It was uncontrollable.
My teeth chattered. My vision blurred at the edges.
Every breath burned as if smoke had filled my lungs.
I wrapped my arms around myself tightly, trying to hold my body together.
Rocking.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The room spun around me.
Memories crashed into each other without mercy.
Prison.
The darkness of the cell.
Laughter.
Pain.
Stillbirth.
And then — hours ago. Maybe days. Time had blurred.
My body betraying me.
No.
Not betraying.
Breaking.
Harris had ordered two burly men to beat me.
To punch my stomach.
Again. And again. And again.
Until the fragile life forming inside me could no longer hold on.
Until my body gave up what it had barely begun to protect.
The copper scent of blood flooded the air between my thighs.
Warm. Thick. Final.
I didn’t even know I was carrying that child.
I never got the chance to love them.
Twice.
Two babies.
Not lost.
Taken.