Chapter 24 - Elena
The condo is almost painfully silent when I open my eyes, and to my dismay, I wake up alone.
The other side of the bed is cold, with the sheets disturbed enough to prove that Wyatt was there at all, and as much as I don’t want it to affect me, my chest deflates while I lie there staring at the ceiling.
I don’t want to move at first, not while my body still faintly aches from everything that happened last night. Even after the fact, my muscle memory pulses just enough to remind me of all the ways Wyatt proved to me it was more than just carnal need. More than a craving.
But he didn’t wake me.
Normally, when he slips out early, he’ll text or leave a note, but when I check my phone, there isn’t a single message waiting for me. There’s only silence, and I can’t even smell coffee drifting up from downstairs.
Eventually, sitting up with a sigh, pulling the sheets with me, I tell myself not to read into it too much. It’s not out of the ordinary for something to pull Wyatt out of bed before he’s ready.
Still, that uneasiness is hard to shake.
Used to the way my brothers would get up and leave on a moment’s notice, I do what I always did and continue on. Even without knowing a single detail, left completely in the dark, I go through the motions to keep myself occupied.
The shower helps somewhat as I let the warm water run over me. I wash the lingering grime and smells away, cataloguing a few well-positioned bruises along my hips, and smiling faintly at the sight despite myself.
As my hands drift along my body, I close my eyes and easily recall how Wyatt had done the same, like it was the last time, but it isn’t quite the same. Not even while the scent of his body wash surrounds me like a quiet reminder.
The subtle ache between my legs grows warmer at the mental images, and it takes all of my willpower not to do something about it.
Remembering that I have somewhere to be, I eventually get out and towel off before pulling on a pair of soft leggings, a sports bra, and a relaxed hoodie.
All the while I move through the condo, I half expect Wyatt to appear in one of the doorways, both irritated and apologetic for the interruption.
But he doesn’t.
Downstairs, the place feels even emptier somehow. The kitchen is vacant, and I don’t even find coffee in the machine, or his usual mug sitting in the sink. There’s no evidence he even entered the space this morning.
With a frown, concern springs to life in my chest, sharpening into something I can’t will myself to ignore.
So, I send a text. Just a standard: where are you?
I try to eat something simple while I wait for some kind of response, regardless of how badly I just want to sink into the couch and stare at my screen. Spiraling won’t help, regardless of how tempting it is to slip into.
If there’s one thing my brothers drilled into me growing up, it’s that panic is useless, and it doesn’t get you anything but killed.
Maybe that’s a bit extreme for this very moment, but the fact still stands. Worrying won’t help me.
Eventually, an alert on my phone—one I mistake for a text from Wyatt, only to feel my heart sink—reminds me of my spin class starting in half an hour.
Initially, I debate skipping out just in case, but the longer I consider sitting alone in the condo with my thoughts, the less appealing it becomes. At least it’ll be a controlled environment, with routine and familiar faces to keep my spirits up.
It’s normal, and something I desperately need.
So, I grab my things and head out, sure to keep my phone on me at all times.
The driver’s already waiting when I step outside, giving me a tepid greeting as usual while he opens the door for me. He’s polite and professional, scanning the street in a way that suggests he isn’t merely a driver. The usual fare.
Roman had threatened to send one of his own guys over if Wyatt didn’t assign me one, and before I knew it, the man arrived the very next day.
Our small talk is brief as we both get in, and the car pulls onto the highway soon enough. I watch as the usual buildings pass by with my phone in hand, aimlessly tapping a finger against the screen every so often, as if a message might’ve slipped past my notice.
But still, nothing.
I type out another text, only to delete it before I can press the send button. A weird combination of shame and worry shifts in my gut at the thought of sounding too needy, regardless of how badly I just want to hear from him.
For a second, I’m irritated with myself for being so concerned.
He’s a busy man, and he can’t answer me on a whim just because I need reassurance.
With a deep breath, I urge myself to relax.
Luckily, the drive isn’t too long, and soon enough, I’ll be in class sweating off all the annoying thoughts that only grow stronger as time passes.
With the building just a short two blocks away, the car eventually slows in the middle of the street while a few others do the same up ahead.
“Something wrong?”
The driver doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he peers through the glass with a small crease between his brows, then he checks his mirrors. “Just traffic.”
His tone comes across nonchalant enough, but I can’t get past the way he keeps looking around like it isn’t just typical congestion.
So instead of letting it go, I lean forward and try to get a better look at what’s going on.
The street ahead doesn’t look backed up enough to cause this kind of hesitation. It’s almost too quiet.
Then I see a red van angled across the road, not fully blocking the way, but enough of an inconvenience to make the other drivers take their time going around it just in case.
Catching movement in the rearview mirror, I focus on it, catching as an SUV pulls in close behind us, and doing so faster than necessary.
Something strange scurries down my spine at that.
“What’s going on?” I ask, unsure if the question is even meant for him.
The driver’s hand drops just out of sight, reaching for something. “Just stay in the car, Elena.”
Just as he says it, the car is surrounded.
In a wave, the doors are yanked open as voices shout, filling the space with more chaos than I’m prepared to contend with. Their voices are unfamiliar and commanding, not waiting for compliance.
“Elena—”
Before he can reach for me or get a shot in, there’s a brief struggle that happens far too fast for me to follow.
Then, a soft pop sound fills the car, muffled on purpose. The driver slumps in his seat, and before I can stop it, I’m screaming.
The sound tears out of my throat before I can stop it, feeling as hands reach for me. I curl inward to try and stop them from grabbing my arms, but it does nothing. My heart slams against my ribs, and the same thought circulates in my mind, sharp and panicked.
This isn’t happening. Not again.
But the hands don’t stop. Instead, they grab me roughly, trying to be quick as they get my buckle undone and haul me out like I weigh nothing at all.
With sheer, unbridled fear clawing at my chest, I kick and scratch blindly, using my trainers to my advantage. My heel slams into something soft, and someone curses, followed by a hushed laugh, like they know this isn’t the time but can’t resist.
“Fuck sakes…hold her!”
I twist, trying to wrench free as I catch someone’s ribs with my elbow. Still, it doesn’t do anything.
They’re too strong, and there are too many of them, even if I can’t keep track of how frantically I’m moving.
The adrenaline is hot and blinding, and the world narrows to base sensations: fingers digging into skin, the smell of unfamiliar cologne and cigarettes, and the sharp chill in the air as it bites against my exposed skin while I’m dragged away.
“Please,” I cry out, voice a rasp that’s far too humiliating. “Please, stop—”
My lungs burn as I try to breathe, slipping into a kind of panic brought on by this painful deja vu.
I can’t do this again. I can’t be abducted, bound, and gagged, and left to wonder whose hands my fate will end up in. I got lucky with Wyatt, and it sure as hell won’t happen again.
Just as I go to scream again, a hand clamps over my mouth. Without hesitation, I bite hard, both terrified and furious at the thought of going anywhere with them. The man curses but grips harder, making pain bloom in my face.
But regardless of how much it hurts, I don’t stop fighting. I thrash harder, fuelled by instinct and renewed rage, quickly reminded of the helplessness that plagued me the first time this happened. How despite my faith, my brothers didn’t come when I thought they would.
I don’t know how long I fight for, but as my limbs grow heavy and uncoordinated, a sharp sting pinches my neck, sending my awareness shooting to that point.
Blinking, a sluggish sort of confusion moves through me, making everything drag within seconds.
I swallow hard and go to speak, only for nothing to come out.
“Easy,” someone murmurs too close to my ear as the once-hectic movements around me change somehow, only to slip from my recognition entirely. “It’ll pass.”
I want to scream more than anything, but I can’t get my throat to work. I can’t make a sound. And soon enough, my vision blurs to the point where everything feels too distant.
As I start to slip, I think of Wyatt for a beat. His hands on me, the wild determination in his eyes to keep me close, and the unguarded way he took me in, spent and far softer than usual.
Even as darkness creeps in around the edges, relentless and unstoppable, I try so hard to hold on to that. To the warmth he makes me feel.
Then, there’s nothing left to cling to.