Chapter Twenty
Eli
***Three Hours Earlier***
Knuckles isn’t doing well. He’s hiding it, but I can feel him fading.
Hours have crawled by. The guard hasn’t moved from his post at the top of the stairs. No shift change. No relief. No distraction. Just him…standing like a statue, watching.
And every minute that passes, Knuckles seems to shrink a little more inside himself.
“We need to go over some things,” Knuckles whispers, voice barely there. “In case I die before Skip gets to you.”
My breath rips out of me.
“What? No. Please don’t…just don’t die.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow it down. I’m a man. Men don’t cry.
But tears burn anyway.
“Sweetheart,” he sighs…a soft, tired sound that guts me. “I’m going to die. I should’ve already been dead. I’m only still breathing because I’m fighting like hell to stay with you. But, Eli…I won’t last much longer. I can feel it. So we need to go over shit.”
I nod.
Not because I accept it. But because I don’t want him wasting the last of his strength arguing with me.
He shuffles closer, backs me into the corner where the sunlight from that tiny window hits just enough of his face for me to see the truth. He’s pale. Grey. Sweating. Trembling.
How is he even standing?
“Okay,” he whispers. He crowds into my space, shoulder braced against the wall so he doesn’t fall. “I fucking hate saying this, but I need you to not fight them.”
“What?” I breathe, confused and terrified all at once.
“The more you fight, the harder these fuckers get,” he mutters. “They like the challenge. The more you resist, the more damage they’ll do. I need you to do everything you can to make sure they don’t kill you.”
“What if I don’t have a choice?” My voice shakes.
“Fuck, Eli…”
For a second…just a second…he lets the mask drop.
And I see him. All of him.
The man who told me he was dying earlier today. The man whose lungs are drowning him from the inside. The man who should already be gone.
But he’s still here. Still standing. Still protecting me with every breath he has left.
“I need you to do everything in your power to keep your body from shutting down,” he whispers. “Fighting spikes your heart rate worse than fear ever will. And if Cortéz finds out about your condition? He’ll use it against you. Against Skip. Against all of us.”
A violent tremor runs through him. He grips the wall to steady himself.
“So listen to me,” he forces out. “Fight only if it comes down to your life. But don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t provoke them. Don’t give them any reason to notice you.”
He swallows hard, then takes my hand with a grip that’s barely there anymore.
“Skip will come for you, sweetheart.”
His voice cracks.
“He’ll tear this whole fucking desert apart to get to you. You just need to stay alive long enough for him to get here.”
I lean gently into his body and hug him.
“I’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I was being selfish. I’ll be okay, Knucks. You can rest now.”
I step back, reaching to help him sit, maybe ease him to the floor, but I freeze when I look up and see him smiling down at me softly.
Like he isn’t dying.
Like he isn’t holding himself up by sheer will.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Not until the last of my strength is gone. Believe it or not, I still have a little left.”
I open my mouth to argue, to beg, to tell him…something.
But the basement door creaks.
Heavy boots descend the stairs, a beam of light slicing across the dark like a knife.
“You know,” the man chuckles, “I plum forgot you two were down here.”
Cortéz.
That voice…that smug, oily voice…turns my blood cold.
“Click those lights on,” he calls over his shoulder. “The generator will give us about half an hour before it runs out of gas. Plenty of time.”
A few moments later, the old bulbs overhead flicker once, buzz angrily, then explode to full brightness.
And the room comes alive in a way I wish it hadn’t.
The basement is worse than I imagined in the dark.
Concrete walls stained with old water damage and rust. A concrete floor that’s seen better days, dust swirling in the air now that the lights have disturbed it.
A metal chair sits facing the back of the room.
A cage sits against the far wall.
Empty.
But the kind of empty that means it wasn’t always that way.
I can’t believe we didn’t notice all this before…but then again, we weren’t doing much moving around.
“There,” Cortéz laughs, spreading his arms as if showing off the décor. “Much better. My, my…” he tilts his head, grin sharp and condescending. “You two look horrible.”
Knuckles shifts in front of me, shoulders squared, hiding how badly he’s swaying.
“Now, I need you to come with me,” Cortéz says, pointing directly at me like he’s choosing a wine bottle. “We need to have a… discussion.”
“I don’t fucking think so,” Knuckles growls.
Cortéz chuckles.
“Don’t worry, big guy. I have plans for you, too. I just need to get your boy toy ready for my friend. He likes it when I bring him back gifts from across the border. We’ll be going home tomorrow.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” Knuckles snarls. He shoves me behind him, backing us into the wall as if he can physically hold back fate by sheer force of will.
“I told you,” Cortéz sighs dramatically, “you’d get your turn. I just need you to cooperate long enough for Spike to arrive and get his clubmate back alive and in one piece. Your death,” he gestures lazily, “would only enrage him. I’m practically doing you a favor. Saving your life. See?”
“No, I don’t fucking see,” Knuckles roars. The sound tears out of him so violently his entire body trembles, and he collapses hard to his knees.
Cortéz’s eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Hmm. I didn’t notice before, but you’re sick. What is it? The flu?”
“Pneumonia,” I lie quickly. “He should be at home resting. Not down here in this wet basement. Please… let him go.”
Knuckles jolts, fury flashing in his eyes as he forces out, “Eli.”
He tries again to stand.
His legs don’t cooperate.
His breathing is ragged, wet, terrifying.
Right here in the harsh yellow basement light, I watch the truth settle over him like a shadow.
His body is done. He’s held on longer than he should have. And there’s nothing left.
This is it.
He’s about to die.
The realization punches my chest in two. My heart aches, and my eyes burn, but buried under the heartbreak is a guilty, trembling relief.
Because whatever Cortéz plans to do…Whatever nightmare he dragged us into…Knuckles won’t have to suffer it.
He won’t make it that far.
And knowing that…hurts and comforts in the same broken breath.
“The biker is too weak,” Cortéz says to no one in particular, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of a dying man. “Interesting.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Change of plan. Send Aaron down. I’ll allow him to play while the biker watches.”
My stomach drops.
Moments later, footsteps echo down the stairs, and a man appears…young and handsome in a way that makes my skin crawl. He looks at me like I’m a dessert someone forgot to cover.
“I thought I was going to get to play with the biker,” he says, disappointed. “Not his toy.”
“Well,” Cortéz laughs, “it seems the biker can’t even hold himself up.
He wouldn’t survive your game.” He gestures lazily at Knuckles, slumped and trembling on his knees.
“The toy, however? He might do the trick. Spike and his men have this ridiculous belief that innocent people shouldn’t be harmed. ”
Both men laugh at his twisted idea of a joke.
I flinch.
“Of course,” Cortéz goes on, “My friend's gift won’t be shiny when he receives it, but I don’t think he’ll care. Try not to kill him, Aaron. As long as he’s warm and can fight back, my friend won’t mind.” He smiles…an empty, cruel thing. “He enjoys blood play, after all.”
Aaron’s eyes gleam as he looks at me again.
Knuckles pushes himself in front of me on trembling arms, coughing wetly, blood splattering the concrete.
“Over my fucking body,” he grits out.
And Cortéz just smiles.
Because Knuckles is too weak to stand. Too weak to fight. Too weak to save me.
And they all know it.
Knuckles’ eyes go wide, and suddenly he’s gulping for air like he’s drowning on dry land.
“Knuckles,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside him. My hands tremble as they move over his back, useless but desperate. “It’s okay…it’s okay. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
We both know it’s a lie.
A horrible, tearing gasp rips out of him before he collapses onto one elbow, coughing so violently that blood splatters across the concrete. Cortéz laughs like he’s watching a comedy show.
“Grab the toy while the biker is distracted.”
I don’t even have time to brace.
Aaron steps around Knuckles and, grabbing my arm, drags me toward the empty metal chair. Knuckles reaches for me, but his arm buckles beneath him, and he hits the floor with another wet, choking cough.
Before I even process what’s happening, I’m shoved into the chair, and chains rattle like snakes as they wrap around my chest, my wrists, my waist, and my legs. They anchor me in place like I’m an animal being prepped for slaughter.
My heart is going too fast. Too hard. Too dangerous.
I try, God, I try, to breathe slowly, to relax.
But I’m failing.
“Don’t…” Knuckles gasps, rolling to his stomach, reaching for me again. “…fucking…touch…him.”
“Oh, this is adorable,” Cortéz laughs. “Biker love.”
He pulls out his phone.
“Go ahead, Aaron. Just something simple to start. I want to send our President a nice little video greeting.”
Cortéz turns his camera toward Knuckles’ broken body.
“Smile, biker. Tell your President you miss him.”
Knuckles collapses fully…face pressed to the bloody floor, breath rattling, strength gone. Cortéz circles him slowly, recording every second of it like he’s filming a nature documentary.
I try to scream, but Aaron is already wrapping duct tape around my mouth…around my entire head…and with each tight pass, the tape presses me back against the chair until I’m pinned completely still.