62. Camilla
Ispent the entirety of my first eighteen years sleeping alone.
I didn’t do sleepovers. My parents never co-slept with me. And when I was sick, the closest I got to someone sleeping beside me was when Chloe slept in the chair in the corner to make sure I continued breathing through the night.
And yet, no matter how much time I spend lying here, I can’t drift off without one of them sleeping beside me.
In the six weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve grown so used to having them close that I’ve unknowingly come to depend on them. It’s so fucking stupid allowing myself to be vulnerable with them, but they’ve crawled their way under my skin, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to free myself from them.
I sigh and drag my phone closer. Normally, I barely touch the thing. I can only contact four people on it, and I’m trying desperately not to ask for updates, but I just have this bad feeling that something has gone wrong.
Perhaps all these years as a Mafia princess have taught me to sniff out danger, or maybe I’m just being paranoid. Neither seem like they’re outside the realm of possibility at the moment.
The screen comes to life, and just like the last three times I’ve checked it, there are no new messages.
“You’re being ridiculous.” I reprimand myself, and I am being ridiculous. The four of them are the most feared men in the city. They control the five families without lifting a finger most days, and I’m here worried that Charles, of all people, is going to hurt them? Out of the five families, the Davenports have historically been the least brutal, and from the stories I’ve been told about the organization since my father started training me, nothing has changed.
The distant sound of the roller door fills the otherwise quiet complex, and I slip from bed before I’ve made the decision to go to them.
I’m like a moth to a flame, and I’m past caring if I get burned.
My bare feet slap against the hardwood floors of the hallway, leading me into the expansive garage, but when I reach the door, it’s pitch-black inside.
Did I imagine the sound?
Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.
I reach for the light switch, fumbling around until my fingers make contact with the panel. I flick the switch, but the looming space remains dark.
My brows tug together in confusion. The power must be out.
I force a breath into my lungs and decide to go back to my bedroom to wait. Obviously, I was imagining things when I heard the roller door.
I make it two steps before an arm wraps around my waist and I’m dragged back against a hard body.
A scream climbs up the back of my throat, but before I can make a sound, a sharp stabbing pain in my neck steals it away.
The arm keeps me steady as I shove at it, but whatever they injected me with spreads through my body quicker than I can fight.
Darkness approaches me, the abyss calling to me, and no matter how hard I fight it, the drugs drag me closer and closer by the second.
I collapse back into the hard body, and my eyes drift closed.
Lips press to my ear, a warm, familiar breath whispering across my cheek. The last words I hear before I free fall into the darkness come from a voice that’s all too familiar.
“I’m sorry, Princess.”
To be continued…