CHAPTER 28
MIA
Katie told us another story today.
This time it was about Pinocchio, the boy who wanted to be real. He had a talking cricket that told him what to do and a cat named Figaro. Figaro was cute. I liked him. But I liked Pinocchio more.
I understood him.
Because I want to be real too. I want to stop feeling like a doll, like something made of wood and string, something that doesn't move unless someone tells it to.
One doesn’t care much for stories. He just waits for Katie to stop talking so she’ll let us watch TV. We have a small one. The people inside it live in a different world, where there’s always sunlight and big houses with flowers outside.
I wonder if we’ll ever get to see that world.
The clock beside our bed beeps at midnight, and I grin.
“One! One, wake up!” I bounce excitedly on the mattress, my voice barely above a whisper. I count the lines scratched into the wall, the ones Katie marks for our birthdays. We don’t know if her name is really Katie. She can’t confirm, so we had to guess.
We heard the name on TV once, so we gave it to her. She didn’t argue. It’s better than calling her Twelve, like they want us to.
“It’s our birthday,” I whisper. “We can have the cake now.”
One blinks at me, then sits up, rubbing his eyes.
Katie is allowed to leave. She went out today and brought back a small piece of cake. She said we could eat it when the clock struck twelve. It smelled like vanilla. It smelled sweet.
I scramble out of bed and open the cabinet, but my smile fades.
There’s no cake.
A fat, greasy rat sits where it should be, its tiny hands clutching crumbs. Its whiskers twitch. It looks up at me.
I scream.
Before I can even move, One grabs the rat in his fist. There’s a sharp crunch, bones snapping like twigs, and then the sound of wet, tearing flesh. Blood drips from his fingers.
I sniffle, staring at the mess where my cake should be.
“Don’t cry, Mia,” One says, wiping his hand on his shirt. “I kept my piece somewhere else. You can have it.”
I brighten, turning to him. “And you? Won’t you eat?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Nico says sweet things make us weak.”
“Oh.”
I crawl back into bed and pull the blanket over my head. The room feels darker now, the shadows stretching longer. I don’t like the dark.
“Can you stay here with me?” I whisper. “Just for tonight?”
One doesn’t argue. He lies down next to me, his warmth steady and real. The smell of blood lingers, but I don’t mind.
My eyes get heavy.
“Happy birthday, bro,” I mumble.
“Happy birthday, sis.”
My eyes blink. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, I register where I am.
The basement.
The place where I was born.
My bed is still in the same spot. The little TV is still there, though I doubt it works. Children’s storybooks, the small table we used to study on—every detail remains untouched, frozen in time. I haven’t seen this place in years. Not since I moved in with James.
The weight around my wrists makes my stomach drop. Chains. I follow the cold metal links down to where they bolt me to the floor. My limbs feel like lead, my mind a fog.
Sedatives. Enough to keep me sluggish. Weak. Too powerless to escape.
I inhale sharply, forcing myself to focus. My fingers tremble as they reach for my neck. If I can just get to my necklace—if I can call Laura—everything will be fine.
But my skin is bare.
Nothing is there.
Shit. Shit.
There’s no way to warn her. She’ll have to notice my absence. But how long will that take? We don’t see each other often.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? Long enough for the world outside to keep turning without me. Long enough for no one to notice I’m gone.
Then, I see him.
Zane.
He’s sprawled out, motionless. My pulse spikes. The chain rattles violently as I lunge toward him, metal scraping against the floor, the sound slicing through the heavy silence. Our old mattresses aren’t far apart, and by some miracle, I manage to reach him.
His leg is in a cast. Bandages cover his body. Someone took care of him.
I hover over him, my fingers trailing over his skin. Cold. Too cold. My chest tightens as I press my palm against his chest, waiting—no, pleading—for movement. A sound. Anything.
Then, there it is. A weak rise and fall.
Breath.
"Zane," I whisper, my voice raw.
No response.
My fingers slide up his jaw, brushing over the stubble, tracing the shape of his lips. They’re cracked, dry, but warm. My heartbeat is frantic now, my own breath shaky as I lean closer.
"Zane, please listen to me."
A low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat. His lashes twitch. Then, slowly, his eyes crack open.
The blue is dull. Unfocused. But he sees me.
He sees me.
"Mia..." His voice is hoarse, barely there.
A sob catches in my throat. I cup his face with both hands, my thumbs ghosting over his cheekbones.
"You're here," he murmurs, his head lolling slightly to the side.
A strangled laugh escapes me. Shaky. Desperate. "I never left."
Then, he pulls me in.
There is no hesitation. No slow, careful gentleness. Just raw, unfiltered desperation.
His lips crash against mine, and I don’t think—I just surrender.
He kisses me like I’m the only thing tethering him to life. Like letting go isn’t an option. My mouth parts for him, and his hands clutch at my waist, dragging me closer, as if the mere inches between us are unbearable.
The taste of blood lingers between us, metallic and sharp. My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping, pulling, memorizing every sensation before it’s ripped away from us again.
When we break apart, we’re gasping. My forehead presses against his, and my vision blurs with unshed tears.
"I thought I was going to lose you," I whisper.
Zane’s fingers skim along my cheek, his gaze never leaving mine.
"You'll never lose me," he murmurs. "We're together until the end. Me and you."
For a second, I let myself believe it. I close my eyes, absorbing the warmth of his touch, the sound of his breathing.
Then, something twists deep inside me.
I exhale, stepping back just enough to take in our surroundings. The dim lighting, the dust-covered shelves stacked with books, the TV mounted on the wall—long dead, its screen coated in grime.
A chill creeps up my spine.
"I know this place," I murmur. My voice is barely above a breath.
Zane watches me closely, his brows furrowing.
“I spent hours there,” I whisper, pointing to the faded old chair in the corner. “Reading everything Katie gave me. Every book she thought might be useful.” My eyes flick to the bookshelf, its edges worn from years of use. “They were my world. They taught me about places I would never see.”
I swallow hard, my gaze shifting to the TV. "And that… that was my only window to the outside. I watched people live. I imagined what it would be like to be there, to be free. But I never left."
My throat tightens. The memories coil around me, suffocating.
"I was a doll trapped in a glass box," I whisper. "A monster in training."
Silence settles between us. Heavy. Suffocating.
I force myself to meet Zane’s gaze.
His expression is unreadable. Dark. But beneath the surface, I see it.
Something that guts me from the inside out.
“Mia…”
“Now we’re here again.” My voice cracks with a hollow laugh. “But this time, I’m not alone.”
He reaches for me, pulling me close until our foreheads touch, breath mingling in the dark, stale air of the cell.
“I’ll never leave you alone,” he murmurs.
“I’m scared,” I admit, so quietly it almost dies in the silence. “We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know. I hope Charlie finds us. I hope someone does…” His voice falters. “But if this is it… if we don’t get out…”
“Maybe it’s the most messed up thing to say after everything that just happened, but… I don’t want to die without feeling you again—just once more,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
Zane’s chest rises against mine—uneven, strained. He’s pale, his leg bent wrong, his body clearly failing. But his eyes... they eat me alive.
“Come here,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
I glance at his leg, the way his jaw tightens through the pain.
“Zane—”
“I don’t care,” he cuts in, desperate. “I don’t care how much it hurts. You’re scared—just come here.”
So I do. I curl beside him, his arm slipping around me, pulling me into his chest like I’m something fragile.
The silence stretches. And then, softly, I say, “I miss L.A.”
He doesn’t speak, but I feel his breathing change.
“That flat was small, but it was nice. Warm. Remember how the sun came through the windows in the morning? And how Carter always looked pissed when we made too much noise—like he was constantly hungover or something. Guess the drugs were already getting to him back then. He never really lived there, though. He just came around, time to time, to babysit me. He was always on edge, but… I think he would’ve warmed up to me in time. I could feel it.”
Zane exhales through his nose, a sound caught between agreement and regret.
“I miss when our biggest problem was that we got drunk and accidentally married.” I laugh, but it dies fast in my throat. “Back when things felt… perfect. Or maybe not perfect, just possible.”
A pause.
“Can we play pretend for one last time?” I whisper, barely able to hear myself over the pounding in my chest.
“Pretend?” Zane’s voice is low, cautious.
I nod against him. “That we’re still there. That we never left.”
He presses his lips to my temple, breathing me in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“Is that where you wanted to be? L.A.?” Zane’s voice is gentle, but there's an edge of something I can’t place.
I nod, stepping closer, holding his gaze like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. “I need you to pretend with me,” I say, my voice shaking, barely able to hold the tremor back. “I need to be somewhere else, anywhere but here. Somewhere where we’re not stuck in this fucked-up situation. Pretend we’re not going to die here. LA or Texas… my home isn’t a place, Zane. It’s you.”
I can feel the weight of my words, heavy with all the things I’ve never said before. My heart beats faster, and I’m not sure if it's the fear or the truth that makes it race.
Zane stays quiet for a long moment. Then his hand gently slides up my arm, his grip tightening around my shoulder as if to remind me he’s still here, still real.
“Okay.”
I climb onto his lap slowly, hesitantly, until my thighs cage his hips. He groans low—pain and hunger twisting together—and grips my waist so hard it bruises.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “I forgot how fucking perfect you feel.”
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, cupping his face.
He leans in, lips brushing mine. “I’d crawl through hell for you. Don’t make me beg.”
I don’t wait.
I kiss him—hard, messy, like it’s the only thing that keeps us alive. His hands tear at my clothes, dragging them aside, trembling with need.
“I missed this,” he pants. “Missed your mouth. Missed your pussy. You don’t know how many nights I lay awake hard as fuck, wishing you were here. Wishing I was buried inside you again.”
"We were only apart for a week," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath, trying to make sense of the words.
Zane leans in closer, his green eyes darkening as they lock onto mine. "A week," he murmurs, the heat of his breath making my skin tingle. "But it felt like a lifetime."
"But you couldn’t resist that much, could you?" I add, my lips curling into a subtle smirk as I recall the way he fucked me in the shower after we reunited.
Zane’s smile curves into something darker, a hunger that flickers in his eyes. "I can’t fucking resist you," he growls, his voice rough and thick with desire. "Anywhere, anytime."
“Then take me,” I whisper. “Right now.”
His cock is already stiff, leaking precum, twitching against my thigh. I free him, stroking slowly, teasing the swollen tip through my slick folds until he curses under his breath.
“You’re soaked,” he growls. “You want this as bad as I do?”
I nod, breathless. “I want you. I need you inside me when the world ends.”
“Fuck—Mia…”
I sink down onto him in one slow, desperate motion. He chokes on a groan, forehead hitting my shoulder as I take him all the way in.
“You feel like fucking paradise,” he groans, shaking. “Perfect.”
I start to move, hips rolling with growing urgency. He clutches me like a lifeline, fingers digging into my ass, dragging me down harder each time.
His broken leg jerks, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Just grits his teeth, letting me use him, letting me fuck him like we’re already ghosts.
“Faster,” he begs. “Fuck—ride me. Ride me until I can’t breathe.”
“I love you,” I cry, grinding harder, faster. “I love you. I just want this. I want you.”
He thrusts up into me with what strength he has left, cock hitting deeper, harder.
“Say it again,” he pants.
“I love you.”
His lips find my neck, biting down as he spills inside me with a deep, guttural growl. It sets me off — my orgasm crashes through me, violent and dizzying. I clench around him, crying out his name as he holds me so tightly it hurts.
We collapse into each other, breathless and undone, the air around us thick with heat, sweat, and desperation. Zane’s leg trembles beneath me—his injury clearly burning through his body—but he doesn’t let go. He holds me tighter, like I’m the only thing tethering him to life.
He winces, his jaw clenched from the pain. “Shit... that hurt.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I whisper, brushing my fingers through his damp hair.
“Because I’d rather feel pain with you than die without ever having you again,” he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. “If this is the end, I wanted to feel alive.”
The silence between us crackles, heavy and electric. Our bodies still joined, our breaths sync like a rhythm we’ve always known. Every pulse of him inside me is a reminder—we’re not dead yet. We still belong to each other.
And then, the thought creeps in.
“There’s probably cameras,” I murmur, glancing toward the corner of the ceiling, suddenly aware of just how exposed we are. “They could be watching us.”
Zane lets out a low, hoarse laugh, his voice wrecked from moaning, from pain, from love. He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my lips.
“Let them,” he says, voice thick with teasing affection, something raw beneath it. “Let them see how much I love you.”
His hand slides down to the curve of my waist, pulling me flush against his chest despite the strain on his broken leg. His eyes lock on mine, dark and molten.
“If we go down,” he says, kissing me with a slowness that aches, “we go down together.”
And in that moment, I believe him.
I kiss him harder, taking everything, drinking in the sound of his ragged breath, the tremble in his arms, the way he grips me like I’m already slipping away.
And then I feel it.
The way his body responds—despite the pain, despite the blood drying on his skin and the weight of everything around us—he’s still hard. Still aching for me.
Still mine.
I shift, and his breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.
“Shh,” I whisper, guiding him inside me again. Slowly. Purposefully. “I just want to feel you.”
I sink down on him inch by inch, every stretch, every pulse making us both tremble. This time, it’s not frantic. It’s not desperate.
It’s reverent.
Like maybe this is the last prayer we’ll ever get to say, and we’re whispering it in the language of skin and breath and the impossible ache of love.
Zane groans, burying his face in my neck. I know he is in pain—but he doesn't stop me.
He clutches me tighter instead, his mouth trailing hot, broken kisses along my jaw.
I ride him slowly, letting the rhythm carry us—him inside me, deep and pulsing, again and again—until I feel him fall apart beneath me with a guttural moan, spilling into me one final time.
And I stay there. Holding him. Keeping him buried deep inside me, like I could fuse us together and keep this moment suspended forever.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move.
I only realize one thing.
Maybe fate will be merciful.
If I die, it will be in his arms.