Chapter 50
WES
When I came to, all I felt was pure, unconscious panic. Every addict had the occasional relapse nightmare, especially in early sobriety. I hadn’t had one in a while. They were stressful as fuck, and nothing felt better than the relief that followed upon waking.
It was just a dream. I didn’t actually drink. I didn’t actually ruin my hard-fought recovery. I’m safe.
It took me a few seconds to realize this nightmare did not belong to the dreaming realm, and there was no escaping it.
I slowly sat up. I was in a windowless wine cellar, flat on my back, with a fucking IV in my arm. My mouth was dry and tasted sickly sweet, my head pounding in a dull ache.
Two chandeliers hung above me, dimly illuminating the stone arches and wood beams that gave the space an old European flair. A rustic wooden table sat in the center of the space, but no chairs.
The door to the cellar up four stairs was closed. I was alone.
Within arm’s reach were two pieces of toast on a plate.
I quickly assessed my options. I was hungover and still slightly drunk, but I didn’t feel drugged. Which meant the IV was likely delivering fluids and electrolytes, and the toast served a similar purpose.
Roman was sobering me up.
Rage slowly simmered in my blood, but if I acted out of spite—if I ripped the IV out of my arm and refused the toast—I’d be at a disadvantage for whatever came next.
Roman had expertly designed his twisted, sadistic game for maximum damage. Every choice was a lose-lose. Either I did exactly what he wanted, which cost me my power, or I refused, and I lost my strength and…
Nova.
I would lose Nova.
My stomach lurched. I ate the toast.
An unfamiliar man came in an hour later to remove the IV. He was cold and unreadable. Neither of us spoke.
After he left, I searched the space. The only weapons of use to me were the wine bottles themselves, and those were unlikely to be helpful in the face of a gun.
I grabbed one anyway. It was the only thing I could do, the only action available to me. I leaned against the wall close to the door, seething with hatred and pure, primal protectiveness. I was prepared to offer Roman anything, anything at all, to stop him from hurting Nova.
Even my life.
Another two hours passed, and I still felt like death, but the alcohol had finally left my system. My head throbbed, but it was clear.
Clear enough to notice the rectangular bulge under the mat I’d woken up on.
I pulled out The Story of O. The copy Roman had stolen from me.
A page had been dog-eared, likely the same section in the back of the book that had made Roman laugh earlier.
My heart skipped a beat.
Just four words had been underlined. I threw the book across the room. And then, I had a better idea.
I lifted the wine bottle into the air.
The cellar door creaked open. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I’d never stared at another human being with such pure vitriol, and Roman drank my anger like a drug. He stood on the steps, gun in hand.
“She’ll be here soon.”
My heart fell, and my raised arm followed.
“You understand what you have to do now, don’t you, brother?”
“Why? Why would you do that to her?” I yelled, gripping the wine bottle so tight, my knuckles ached.
“Did you not listen? I’ll speak slower this time. I will not be doing anything to Nova tonight. You will be.”
“I’ll leave the city. I will sign away everything I own. Just leave her alone,” I ground out, my throat raw as my heart raced.
Roman pretended to give my words weight, tilting his head from side to side. Then, he laughed in my face. “I decline. My way is more of a lifetime guarantee, and, honestly, it’s more entertaining for me.” He glanced at the book I’d thrown. “I own her, Wes.”
I gripped the bottle harder, fighting every urge in my body to slam it down on Roman’s skull.
He took a step back. “And, more importantly, I own you.”