Chapter 29
29
T hey’ve fed me seven times… or maybe eight. Meager meals—bread and water, mostly—delivered at random intervals, making it impossible to track the days. I know it’s been at least a few.
Sometimes, they surprise me with a bowl of hot oatmeal. Comforting and cruel all at once. The heat soaks into my hands, spreads through my belly—but it never lasts. Just a fleeting reminder of how cold I am, shivering in my ruined dress.
At least the slit in the skirt lets me wrap it around my arms and legs, curling into the smallest shape possible to conserve warmth. It helps, but my bones still feel carved from ice.
I’d kill for one of Whit’s oversized sweatshirts right now—the ones that always smell like him. Cedar and soap.
The cough came out of nowhere, and it came on fast.
At first, it was just a scratch in the back of my throat—something I could blame on the limited water they give me. But lately, it’s worsened. Grown deeper. A harsh rattle in my chest that stabs with every breath.
I haven’t had it long—maybe a day or two—but it’s persistent, growing worse with each hour I spend in this damp, freezing cellar.
I think the cold triggered it, the stone walls leeching away whatever heat I have left. The air, thick with moisture, only makes it worse. Now, every inhale feels weighted, every breath dragged through my lungs like wet cement. My throat, raw as sandpaper, burns with each scraping cough.
My body protests with every movement as I stand, shaking the numbness from my limbs, fighting to stay upright. Even with regular attempts to move, my muscles throb from days spent curled on the freezing floor, desperately trying to find warmth. Dizziness comes in waves now, spiraling through my skull with every rise.
Pins and needles stab at my legs, but I force myself to ignore the weakness tearing through me.
I will stand.
I will straighten.
They’re coming for me. They have to be.
Even the best need time to plan—I know this.
I do.
But the waiting gnaws at me, whispering doubts into the cracks forming in my resolve. I won’t let it break me.
Not yet.
Not when I know they’re out there, somewhere, figuring out a way to bring me home.
Not after I’ve just put myself back together.
Yet that hope—the fragile thread I’ve been clinging to—is fraying.
Silence is my oppressor, stretching endlessly as the days blur into a haze of hunger, cold, and despair. I wrap the tattered skirt of my dress tighter around my legs, knowing it will do nothing to warm my frozen limbs. The ache in my chest sharpens as my mind drifts—to the comfort of their arms, to the safety I once felt, to the promise of a life worth living.
A muffled thud jolts me like an electric shock.
I freeze, pulse hammering.
Chaos erupts above—bodies slamming, the clang of metal, then a crash so loud the floor trembles beneath me. My breath catches as I stare at the stairs, straining to listen.
They’re here.
I know it.
A beat of silence. Then, a voice rings out, clear as a bell.
“Suck my dick, you sick pedo!”
It’s so absurdly Quinn that a relieved giggle slips out of me, even as fear tightens in my gut. My heart races, hope flickering to life.
They’ve come for me.
Just like I knew they would.
But as fast as that hope rises, it plummets.
Josiah’s cruel laughter spills down the stairwell—a sound I’ve learned to loathe. The crash of the door swinging open cuts through the chaos, silencing the fight. A sickening scrape follows, bodies being dragged.
My fingers dig into the chains as footsteps descend—slow, deliberate.
The air rips from my lungs as Josiah’s hired guards—mercenaries, if I had to guess—drag the three men who make up my entire heart into the room.
My stomach twists into a cold, hard knot.
They barely move. What little they do is slow, sluggish—like they’re trying to wade through molasses.
“Make sure to give them a warm welcome!” Josiah calls down, not even bothering to make an appearance.
The guards laugh as they toss them to the ground. Then, one by one, they take turns beating them.
I have to fight to keep from vomiting.
“Please,” I beg, voice shaking. “Please stop. Don’t hurt them.”
The guards glance over, and if I’d expected surprise to flicker across their gazes at seeing a woman chained down here, I’d be disappointed.
Two of them leer, their gazes crawling over me like a second layer of filth. But at least they stop.
Whit’s head lolls to the side, his face pale, streaked with blood that drips sluggishly from a gash above his temple. His broad shoulders—usually so strong, so proud—sag, as if the fight has been beaten out of him.
“Princess,” I barely hear the word leave his lips. The sound so small for such a large man. I choke on a sob.
I want to call out, tell him to lift his head, to look at me.
But I already know.
It’s too late.
He’s unconscious.
Beckett stirs, his eyes fluttering open for a fleeting moment—but they’re dull, unfocused. The sharp precision, the calculating awareness that defines him, is gone.
Whatever they drugged him with is winning.
His body jerks weakly as one of the mercenaries shoves him forward. He stumbles, only staying upright because they’re dragging him along like a broken doll.
But it’s Quinn who shatters me.
He’s still fighting to stay conscious, his lips pulled into a bloody grin—God, that maddening, reckless grin—as his swollen eyes flicker toward me.
His voice is weak, thick, the words spilling like molasses, but that unshakable, infuriating confidence is still there. “D’n’t cry, sweetheart,” he slurs, teeth stained red. “Ev’rythin’s goin’ perf’ly t’plan.”
I didn’t even realize I was crying until he said it.
The tears burn as they fall, streaking down my face as I whisper hoarsely, “I think your plan might be shit.”
He doesn’t hear me. His head tilts forward, the fight slipping from his body as he finally goes under.
I can’t stop shaking. My hands tremble against the chains as the guards lock them up—securing the shackles around their wrists before disappearing up the stairs, leaving me alone in the silence.
The sound of heavy footfalls descending the cellar stairs sends a violent shiver through me. I’ve spent days dreading Josiah and his disciples coming through that door. But I never thought he would come.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
The room seems to shrink, damp stone walls pressing in, threatening to swallow me whole.
“You’re more of a disappointment than I always thought you to be,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. No fire, no brimstone. None of the theatrics Josiah wields so effortlessly. My father never needed the spectacle—only cold, unwavering certainty.
“I should have drowned you when you were born. It would have spared us all the trouble.” The words hit harder than I expect, stealing my breath like a fist to the gut.
But I won’t let him see.
I bite down on the raw ache in my chest and meet his gaze, my glare unwavering. “You’ve thought about that a lot, haven’t you?” My voice is hoarse, throat raw from coughing, but I force it to sound unaffected. “How many times have you wished I never existed?”
His mouth tightens, his gaze darkening.
“Every single time you defied me. Every time you questioned your place in this world and thought yourself deserving of more.”
He shakes his head, disappointment so absolute it makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
“You had one duty, Celestina. One purpose. And instead, you threw yourself to those… animals .”
Across the room, Quinn lets out a low, bitter laugh. His head wobbles unsteadily, dried blood caking his chin. But there’s venom in his voice when he speaks.
“That’s rich. You sold her off to a monster and called it devotion.” He lifts his head just enough to sneer, his swollen face twisted with fury. “You’re the failure here, daddy dearest.”
My father barely spares him a glance, his contempt razor-sharp.
“And what are you? Some gutter trash who thinks playing hero will change the fact that you’re nothing?”
Whit growls low in his throat, his arms straining against the restraints. “You failed her. You let a child predator groom your daughter—then had the audacity to blame her for saving herself.”
Beckett’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it, slicing through the room like a blade of ice. “You don’t deserve the title of father, let alone the honor of being hers.”
My father stands firm, completely unmoved, unbothered. Their words don’t touch him. His gaze stays locked on mine, as if they don’t exist. Which, to him, they don’t.
They’re nothing but background noise.
Flies buzzing in his ear.
“Tomorrow, you will marry Josiah, Celestina,” he says, as if it’s already decided—as if no other reality exists. “You will restore this family’s name and bring us back into good standing. Or—” he tilts his head, eyes flashing with the cruelty I know he’s capable of, “—you will spend the rest of your miserable life wishing for death.”
A cold, bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Is that what you think is going to happen?” I shoot back, my voice sharp with exhaustion, raw with rage. “Because I promise you—you’ll be rotting before I ever kneel to that sorry excuse for a man.”
His expression doesn’t shift. No anger, no frustration. Just that same impenetrable wall of certainty—unyielding and emotionless. “You think you have a choice?”
He exhales slowly, like I’m being difficult on purpose. “This union is bigger than you. Your life is not your own, Celestina. It never has been. You are, and have never been, more than currency for me to spend. And I intend to get a return on my investment.”
The weight of his words crushes me. I wish it didn’t. I’ve always known he sees me as nothing more than a possession. That he truly believes I belong to them.
To him.
He’s wrong. Neither he nor Josiah can claim that privilege.
Slowly, I rise to my feet, lifting my chin. The defiance in my veins burns hotter than my fear. “Where’s my mother?” I demand, my voice raw but firm. “I want to see her.”
His sneer deepens. “You won’t be seeing her.”
Something in the way he says it chills me.
“Why not?” I step forward, as far as the chains allow. “What did you do to her?”
My father watches me, the shadow of something like twisted glee curling at the corner of his mouth.
He wants me to ask.
He wants me to beg.
Then he says the two words I unknowingly feared most.
“She’s dead.”
My world shifts. The walls tilt. My breath catches in my throat, solid and painful.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely forming on my lips. “You’re lying.”
He takes a slow step toward me, eyes gleaming darkly. “It was my right as her husband to punish her for her betrayal.”
A slow, horrible smile stretches across his wrinkled face.
“And I did.”
I shake my head, vision blurring as I try to make sense of a world where someone like him can snuff out the light of someone as good as my mother.
No.
No, she can’t be gone.
She can’t be?—
The chains rattle as my body sags, my knees slamming into the cold stone floor with a crack. The pain doesn’t register. I promised I would come back for her.
What if I’d come back sooner?
I can’t breathe. The room is too small. The air too thick.
I feel myself breaking apart, piece by piece, my mother’s face flashing through my mind—her sad smiles, her trembling hands as she sewed my engagement dress, the last whispered words she gave me before I ran.
She gave up everything for me.
And now she’s dead.
Oh, God.
She made the ultimate sacrifice—and I failed her.
Even with all her efforts, I’m right back here, preparing to marry the Devil himself.
My father looks down at me, calm, satisfied. He’s said what he came to say.
He’s broken me.
And now, he’s done.
Without another word, he turns on his heel and ascends the stairs, leaving me drowning in the darkness.
In the guilt.
The door creaks open at the top.
It slams shut.
I barely register it.
My sobs break free—guttural, desolate.
The room is silent, save for my ragged breathing, each inhale interrupted by harsh fits of coughing.
My thoughts spiral, dragging me down into a pit of guilt and self-loathing. If I hadn’t left, if I’d just done what Josiah wanted, maybe she’d still be alive.
Maybe she wouldn’t have had to suffer because of me.
Across the room, the guys are shouting—words of comfort, of fury, of vengeance—but I can’t focus.
Their voices are muffled, distant.
Like they’re calling to me from underwater.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears.
My voice cracks as I whisper, “I can’t… I can’t talk right now.”
A thick silence falls between us. I can feel them watching me, waiting. But I can’t face them.
Not now.
Not like this.
Tears spill freely down my cheeks, my body trembling as I curl into myself. I clutch my knees to my chest, the chains rattling as I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block it all out.
She’s gone.
I didn’t come back in time.
She’s dead because of me.
This is my fault.