41. Clara
CLARA
SURVIVOR
Pain.
It’s the first sensation I wake up to—a sharp, shooting pain in my neck that feels all too familiar.
My brain feels foggy, cloudy, like the feeling you get when you pull an all-nighter and only get an hour of sleep.
It takes far too long for me to come to the stark realization that this pain in my neck is one I’ve felt before.
The night I woke up in that warehouse.
Just as I start to understand the implications, memories from the last few hours play like a movie reel in my head.
Maverick leaving for Rochester with his team.
Tamara coming over to keep me company. The two of us cooking dinner together.
Worrying that I hadn’t heard from Mav since he texted about getting the warrant. The doorbell ringing…
I stifle a gasp when I remember opening the front door and seeing him standing there.
My heart ricochets when the scent of dirt infiltrates my senses.
It doesn’t smell the exact same as when I was trapped in that fucking coffin—there’s something else mixed in, rotten wood maybe—but it’s close enough that panic grips me.
My eyes snap open, causing me to wince as my vision settles on a single bright bulb flickering above me.
I avert my gaze to a dark corner of the ceiling and take stock of my body.
My arms feel heavy, disconnected, like they belong to someone else.
I flex my fingers—they’re stiff and cold but unbound.
No rope burns around my wrists. No zip ties cutting into my skin.
My hands rest against what feels like packed earth beneath me, cold seeping through my clothes with a bone-deep chill that makes me want to curl into myself.
I wiggle my toes inside my shoes—my feet are also free. The absence of bindings should be reassuring, but instead it feels wrong. Deliberate. Like he wants me to know I could run, even though I have nowhere to go. I don’t even know where I am.
My shoulder blades press against the uneven ground, small stones and debris digging into my back through my shirt. When I shift slightly, trying to relieve the pressure points, dirt crumbles and gives way beneath my weight.
I’m still fully clothed—another small mercy that feels more like psychological warfare than kindness.
My legs are straight out in front of me, and when I try to bend my knees, my muscles protest with a deep ache that suggests I’ve been unconscious for hours. How long have I been down here? Where’s Tamara?
Keeping my body still, I slowly turn my head and survey my surroundings. I’m in a small space—a basement or cellar. The walls appear to be rough stone or concrete, disappearing into deep shadows that the single overhead bulb can’t penetrate.
A wooden staircase to my left leads down from above, its rails rickety and worn. Beneath it sits what I initially mistake for a mattress topped with blankets. But when I squint and focus, I make out the distinct outline of wooden slats.
A pallet. A makeshift bed.
The sight fills me with terror, and I tear my gaze away, needing to look at anything else.
The only sound in the room is the steady buzz, buzz, buzz of the overhead light. I don’t hear anything else. I don’t see anyone else.
With that small comfort, I slowly—painstakingly—unfurl my body from the dirt floor. A groan escapes as I sit up, my stiff limbs aching with each movement.
I’m so focused on the effort it takes to sit and steady myself that I nearly miss the shadow rising from the pallet.
“You’re awake.”
I freeze at the sound of his deep, smooth voice.
Samson prowls closer, the harsh shadows from the bare bulb making his presence even more menacing.
“Where’s Tamara? Is she okay? What did you do to her? Where am I?” I fire off the questions in rapid succession, leaving no time for him to answer. My pulse thunders beneath my skin as I glance around the room in a futile search for any way out.
Resignation starts to settle in my bones: the likelihood of escaping this man a second time is nonexistent.
God.
I never wanted to see him again—this man from my nightmares. Never wanted to be alone with him. Never wanted to even think about him. And yet here we are.
Samson remains silent, leaving my questions hanging between us like smoke. I can feel his heavy gaze on me—studying, calculating.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and envision Maverick’s handsome face, hoping that his presence—even if it’s just in my mind—is enough to keep me calm.
“You don’t need to worry about Tamara anymore. It’s just you and me now, Clar.”
I push myself up off the ground, forcing my legs to support me despite their trembling. “There is no you and me.” Steeling my spine, I straighten and meet his eyes. I may not be able to escape him again, but that doesn’t mean I’ll make this easy. I’m a fucking survivor.
He moves with predatory speed, giving me zero time to react as he seizes my shoulder with one hand and grips my throat with the other. “Don’t. Say. That.” Each syllable drips with veiled menace.
The wild, unhinged look in his eyes paralyzes me. I don’t move when he leans in and breathes against my neck. Not even when he trails his nose along my jaw like some kind of animal scenting its prey.
“We’ve missed you. You’re going to be happy with us this time,” he whispers against my cheek.
We? Who is we? And who is us? My forehead creases as I narrow my eyes on his face. “Us?”
He doesn’t answer. The slight tightening of his hand on my throat is the only indication he heard me.
“You’ll be treated better this time, Clar. Just like I told you in my letter. Did you get it? I’ll take care of you.”
I don’t dare pull away, but I can’t withhold the disbelieving scoff that falls from my lips.
“You kidnapped me. You held me captive. You raped me, then you put me in a coffin and buried me alive. You left me to die. And now you want to ‘take care of me?’ Make me happy?” I shake my head at the absurdity of it all.
“He was wrong. I shouldn’t have listened to him.” His voice sounds distant, as if he’s speaking to someone else entirely. He doesn’t stop trailing his nose along my jaw and neck, his hot breath making my skin crawl.
“Who was wrong? What are you talking about?” My head is still foggy, but I know this confusion isn’t from whatever drug he injected me with. He isn’t making sense.
Finally, Samson releases his grip and steps back—just slightly. Still too close. With his eyes locked on mine, he lifts a finger and traces the outline of my lips with disturbing tenderness. “I mean, I was wrong. I didn’t realize how perfect you were. I should’ve kept you. I wanted to keep you.”
Beneath his breath, I swear I hear him mutter, “I told him to keep you.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he continues. “But when we found out you were alive… He wanted to finish it. He doesn’t like loose ends. Everything has to be perfect, yo u know? But then you took over our head, our body. We couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Samson— James , whoever you are—you aren’t making sense. Who is we ? What do you mean by our ? I don’t understand.”
“Samson,” he growls, pressing his face close to mine until I can feel his breath on my lips. “I’m your Samson.”