43. Nell
“Get off!”
Lea’s scream tears through the room, sharp and panicked, yanking me out of the void like a hook through flesh. I jolt awake, but the world is still spinning—tilted, warped, unreal. My limbs are slow to respond, my thoughts sluggish and tangled in the remnants of whatever they drugged me with.
Then I feel it.
The weight.
The pressure.
The presence between my legs.
A stranger.
A man I don’t recognise, moving against me like I’m not even there—like I’m just something to use and discard. His breath is sour, his skin slick, and every inch of him feels wrong.
Like a parasite.
A worm burrowing somewhere it doesn’t belong.
It takes a moment for my mind to catch up to my body, to register what’s happening. But when it does, the nausea hits hard and fast.
This isn’t a nightmare.
This is real.
Something snaps.
Maybe it’s the sound of Lea’s scream still echoing in my ears.
Maybe it’s the weight of him pressing down, the sick rhythm of his breath against my forehead.
Maybe it’s just the last thread of myself refusing to break.
But I move.
Not gracefully. Not with strength.
Just enough.
My knee jerks upward—clumsy, half-numb—but it connects. He grunts, more surprised than hurt, and I use the moment to twist my hips, to shove at his chest with what little force I can muster.
“Get off me!”
I rasp, my voice raw, barely more than a murmur—but it’s mine. It’s me.
He curses, grabbing at my wrists, trying to pin me down again, but I thrash beneath him, wild and uncoordinated. My nails catch skin. I don’t know where. I don’t care. I just want him off.
Lea’s still screaming. I hear a crash—something thrown, maybe. A tray? A plate? I can’t see her, but I feel her panic like it’s my own.
The man snarls, but he’s off-balance now, fumbling. I twist again, harder this time, and manage to roll halfway out from under him. My shoulder hits the floor with a jolt of pain, but I don’t stop. I kick, claw, spit—anything to make him back off.
And then, suddenly, he’s gone.
Stumbling back. Swearing. Grumbling as he admits defeat and leaves.
But Lea’s still screaming in pain. On unsteady legs I turn my attention to her and the man shrouding her like a nightmare.
He’s all over her, smothering the side of her face into the mattress with a hand that threatens suffocation.
“Stay away from me!”
she shouts, her voice cracking.
He doesn’t even blink. Just crowds her again and grabs her by the wrist like she’s a rag doll.
She fights. God, she fights—kicking, twisting, trying to wrench herself free. But he yanks hard, dragging her halfway off the bed.
And then it happens.
Her hip slams into the edge of the frame with a sickening, hollow crack. The sound is sharp and final, like something splitting open.
She screams, only once, but loud enough that her voice ricochets through me, and then collapses.
Her leg folds beneath her at the wrong angle. Her body goes rigid, then limp. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just wide, panicked eyes and shallow, gasping breaths.
I know that sound.
I know that kind of pain.
Something inside her broke.
And something inside me does too.
He leans over her again, reaching for her like she’s still his to take.
I don’t think. I move. Staggering but moving all the same.
The tray from earlier is still on the floor. I grab it and swing—wild, clumsy, but full of something I haven’t felt in days; rage.
It connects with the back of his head, and he grunts against the pain, stumbles, and turns toward me.
“Get away from her!”
I slur, my voice raw and shaking.
He lunges, but I swing again—this time catching him across the jaw. Blood sprays in an arc, then he’s staring at me, stunned, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
And maybe he is.
Because I’m not the girl they drugged anymore.
I’m not the one who lies still and waits.
He spits on the floor and bolts, slamming the door behind him. And in the wake of his actions a sickening silence crashes down.
I drop the tray and fall to my knees beside Lea. She’s trembling, her face pale and slick with sweat.
“I can’t move,”
she whispers.
“Nell… I can’t move my leg.”
I look down. Her thigh is twisted, her pelvis already swelling. She’s broken. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. But physically, in the most brutal way possible.
And it’s not just an injury.
It’s a line in the sand.
They crossed it.
And I’m going to make sure they regret it.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,”
I whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from Lea’s face.
She’s ghost-pale, her body trembling as she braces against the pain I know is devouring her from the inside out. Her hip is already swelling, the skin darkening with bruises that spread like ink beneath the surface. It’s broken—her pelvis, without a doubt. And without surgery, without real help, I don’t see how she’ll ever walk again.
“I need to find help,”
I tell her, my voice shaking.
But she grabs my arm with surprising strength, her fingers digging in, eyes wide and wild with fear. Sweat beads on her forehead, sliding down her dirt-streaked cheeks, mixing with the tears she can’t stop.
“Please don’t leave me,”
she gasps, her breath catching on a sob. She grits her teeth, trying to hold it in, but the pain is too much. It’s written all over her—etched into every line of her face.
“I have to, Lea. I can’t fix this. You need a hospital.”
Even as I say it, I know how ridiculous it sounds.
Like they would ever let us near a hospital.
But I have to try.
I slip my hand from beneath her head, careful not to jostle her broken body, and rise on unsteady legs. The hallway tilts as I step into it, my limbs heavy, my thoughts swimming. I grip the wall, the doorframe, anything to keep me upright.
There are men in the corridor—three of them, maybe four. Their faces blur until I’m nearly nose to nose with one. Only then do his features sharpen, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in.
“Help me,”
I plead, reaching for him, trying to steady myself.
“Please—she’s hurt. She needs help.”
He laughs.
Not just a chuckle—a full, cackling laugh that echoes down the hallway like something evil.
He shakes me off like I’m filth, sidestepping with a sneer, like I’m a beggar in the street asking for something I don’t deserve.
I stumble back, my heart pounding, rage and helplessness crashing over me in waves.
I need to find someone—anyone—who will help.
I don’t know how I make it to the grand staircase. My legs are barely functioning, my vision swimming, but I push forward on instinct alone. Then the world tilts.
My foot misses the first step.
And I fall.
I tumble down the stairs in a blur of limbs and pain, crashing against the polished wood like a rag doll. There’s no grace in it—just gravity and desperation. When I finally land, I lie there for a moment, dazed, unsure which way is up. My body hums with a dull ache, and right now I’m almost grateful for the numbness. It’s better than feeling everything.
I force myself up, staggering into the lounge.
“Help her!”
I shout, weaving between the velvet couches where men lounge like kings—drinks in hand, laughter in their throats, not a care in the world for the girls locked in the rooms above.
One man startles, nearly spilling his drink.
“What the fuck?”
he snaps, jerking away from my outstretched hand like I’m diseased.
Why aren’t they moving?
Why won’t they do something?
“Please!”
I drop to my knees, the room spinning, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“She’s hurt—she can’t move… please!”
But then I see him.
One of the enforcers. Balaclava. Black boots. A shadow made of muscle.
He steps forward.
“No—wait—”
I try to scramble back, but he’s already swinging.
The punch lands square across my face, a brutal crack that sends me sprawling. Blood gushes from my nose, hot and thick, splattering the polished floor. My ears ring. The world narrows to a tunnel of pain and static.
Hands grab me—two men, one on each arm. They lift me like I weigh nothing, dragging me back toward the stairs.
Back up.
Back to the rooms.
Back to the nightmare.
I don’t fight. I can’t.