Chapter 20 Neve
Neve
I woke to pain.
A deep, throbbing, ugly pain pulsed through my cheek, my ribs, my jaw. My eyelids felt glued shut. My head was heavy. My mouth tasted like copper and dirt.
Something cold bit into my wrists.
I tried to shift, but I couldn’t.
My arms were wrenched above my head, stretched until my shoulders burned.
Rough rope cut into my wrists, binding me to a metal railing that groaned every time I moved.
My legs were zip-tied at the ankles and lifted off the ground, leaving me suspended in a helpless, dangling sway—an object, not a person.
I rocked gently with every breath, every twitch, every involuntary tremor. There was no control left in my body; the sway wasn’t mine to stop.
The earth smelt damp, old mold creeping through the walls. The air reeked of gasoline. It clung to the back of my throat and made every inhale feel polluted.
Somewhere in the darkness, far enough to be out of reach but close enough to burrow under my skin, water dripped. A slow, jagged, rhythmic beat that ground into my nerves like a reminder I wasn’t alone, even when no one else was speaking.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Each fall of water felt like another second I didn’t have.
I forced my eyes open, dragging them through the burn.
A dim bulb dangled above me, swinging on a frayed wire. The light flickered on, off, on again, casting the world in jerky snapshots that made everything feel unreal.
I was in a warehouse. Or a basement. Or some sick blend of both—concrete floors slick with grime, metal beams overhead, rust peeling down the supports like old, corrugated blood. Shadows bred in every corner.
Footsteps echoed toward me—slow, measured, unhurried.
A man stepped inside. No, he filled the doorway.
He was massive. Older. A wall of muscle with a thick neck and a face that looked like it had been broken more times than it had smiled. He looked Russian, but I could be mistaken.
His head was shaved, scalp gleaming under the bulb’s stutter.
And his face… his face was a storm. Rage so raw and fresh it looked wet, like it was still bleeding out of him. And that rage was aimed at me.
His eyes swept over me—slow, assessing, stripping me down to bone. He looked like he wanted to peel my skin off.
He stopped in front of me, breathing hard.
“Where is he?”
My throat tightened. My wrists burned against the rope.
“Where,” he repeated, “is the man who killed my brother?”
I blinked at him. Slow. Because I needed to buy time. I needed to think. That was all I could think to do to survive.
He leaned forward, getting in my face. His breath smelled like cigarettes and cheap liquor.
“You can play dumb, but I’m not an idiot. My brother died in an alley trying to bring you here. Who killed him?” His jaw ticked.
There was no man. Just me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered.
Wrong answer.
His hand lashed out, fast and brutal, cracking across my face so hard my head whipped sideways. I tasted blood instantly, warm and coppery.
He grabbed my chin, digging his fingers in.
“You think I believe that?” he snarled. “My brother wasn’t some street rat. Someone trained did that to him.” He leaned closer. “You tell me who. Or I’ll make you tell me.”
I met his stare. My vision swam from the slap, but I didn’t look away.
“I killed him.”
The room fell silent. Even the buzzing bulb seemed to stop.
He stared at me. Then he laughed—a harsh, humorless bark that chilled me.
“You?” Disgust blistered his tone. “A girl? You expect me to believe you slit a man’s throat?”
“Yes.”
He backhanded me again, harder. Pain exploded behind my eyes. My ears rang.
“You think you’re funny?” he roared. “You think this is a game? My brother is dead. DEAD. And you’re lying to my face because you think you’re safe?”
Safe. I almost laughed.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back.
“You tell me his name. You tell me where he is. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you live another day.”
I breathed through my nose, swallowing controlled breaths of air.
“I’m telling you… the truth.” I repeated.
He swung me into the wall.
My skull cracked against cement. Stars burst behind my eyes. Something warm dripped down my neck, and I couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat.
The man paced, muttering curses in another language. He looked seconds from snapping.
He turned back. His fist flew.
It hit my ribs. I choked on the impact, curling forward instinctively. Another hit. And another. My ribs screamed. My body folded, trying to protect itself.
But I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. He noticed this.
I met his eyes.
“You’ve got guts,” he rasped. “But they’re stupid ones.”
He reached behind him, grabbed a knife off a table, and pressed the flat side against my cheek.
The metal was cold, heavy.
“If you don’t talk, I’ll carve the truth out of you.”
I swallowed hard. My pulse thundered behind my ears. But my voice stayed steady.
“Do it.”
He froze. “What?”
“Do it,” I repeated. “Cut me. Kill me. Whatever you think it’ll take. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”
He stared at me like he was trying to decide if I was insane.
Maybe I was.
He raised the knife, then stopped. He snorted and threw his head back with a rough laugh.
“You’re fucking fearless.”
The laugh died instantly.
His boot drove into my shin, then into my side. I grunted, biting back a scream. Pain radiated through my ribs—stabbing, relentless.
When he finally stepped back, I was shaking.
He wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Auction’s on Friday. You’ll fetch a good price.”
My blood turned to ice.
He smirked at the fear he finally saw in my eyes.
“Those proceeds are going straight to my brother’s widow and kids. Consider it… your sacrifice.”
A man stepped toward my swinging body.
“Stay still,” he muttered.
I spat blood at his boots.
“Fuck you.”
His hand came up fast, a reflex born of violence, but he caught himself at the last second. His jaw flexed as he forced it down, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to control himself.
“Boss said to patch you up,” he snarled. “Not ruin the merchandise. But don’t think I won’t.”
His gaze dragged over me slowly. His eyes lingered too long on my mouth, my throat, the way my body was stretched and helpless.
He stepped closer.
His fingers brushed my cheek—light, deliberate, wrong. Testing how far he could go. The touch sent a shiver up my spine.
“Already damaged,” he muttered, like he was annoyed by it. “What a waste.”
My skin crawled. Every instinct in me screamed to bite, kick, tear—but all I could do was sway in the ropes, exposed and useless.
I lifted my chin anyway, pain ripping through my shoulders.
“Get your hands off me, bastardo.”
His mouth twisted into something ugly.
“You keep running that mouth, little girl…” He leaned in just enough that I could smell his breath. “…and someone at the auction will make sure you learn how to shut it.”
His fingers slid briefly to my chest, palming one breast, then the other. I kicked out viciously, until I was spinning erratically, making it hard for him to touch me again.
He stepped back, disgust twisting his face. If he tried again, I would make it costly.
He turned and walked out.
The lock clicked. Heavy. Final.
Silence rushed in like a tide.
My body throbbed everywhere at once—ribs, jaw, wrists, lungs. Blood coated my tongue. My stomach twisted, nausea burning low and intense. I pulled against the restraints, testing every knot, every tie, every inch of give, even though it made the ropes bite deeper into my skin.
I wasn’t done.
I’d survived worse than this. And I would survive this too.