Chapter 3
Adora
I dreamed of water. Of rivers, of waves crashing against cliffs, of rain soaking into the cracked desert of my throat. I could almost taste it, feel the cool relief trickling down my tongue, soothing the fire in my veins.
Of course, then I woke up, and all I had was Ghost's version of mercy.
Nothing.
I just want to die with a little fucking dignity. Is that too much to ask?
I try not to think about the thirst. Instead, I think about him. Even now, even after everything, he is still the thing that haunts me the most.
He was always impossible to look away from.
He used to smile at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to him. His dark eyes would flicker in the dusky glow of the clubhouse, tracking me across the room like he couldn't stand to be apart from me.
I loved him for that.
And now? Now, those same dark eyes hold nothing but hunger. A dangerous, terrifying one.
I know I deserve his hate, but why does it hurt so much to see it?
When he steps inside, I keep my head down, waiting for the destruction of whatever is left of me. But he doesn't speak. He just stands there, watching, seeing all the way inside my skull. Waiting.
After a long pause, he exhales a soft, almost amused sound, and then he does the worst thing possible.
He crouches in front of me, reaches out, and brushes his fingers over my cheek.
I flinch violently. His touch is warm, and some pathetic, broken part of me suddenly craves it. It's this fucking cold dungeon's fault.
His lips curl dangerously. "That's the first real reaction I've gotten out of you today."
I swallow, my throat dry, raw, on fire. "Go fuck yourself."
His thumb skims the edge of my jaw, barely there, just enough to remind me he can touch me whenever he wants to.
"Would you like a drink?"
I blink, my sluggish brain misfiring at the words. My gaze drops to the glass in his hand.
Water. Clear. Cool. Perfect. A single sip would feel like salvation.
He is baiting me, mocking me. I hate that it's working. I hesitate — just a fraction of a second. My pride says 'no' but common sense kicks in.
"Yes, I'd like some water, Ghost," I croak. I can't let this go on forever.
"I'm sure you would," he says casually, standing back up, still holding the glass. "But you're not broken enough yet. I see the need to fight in you. You haven't learned your lesson. So you'll have to wait a while longer, until I decide it's enough."
I lift my chin, glaring. "You are fucking pathetic. What? Are you so weak that you can't kill me with a bullet? So you have to do this? Is it some kind of sick sexual fantasy? You're embarrassing yourself."
Maybe if I annoy him enough, if I bring his anger out, he would kill me already and stop this madness. This slow torture.
"It's not nearly as embarrassing as begging me for a single drop of water, adorable," he muses, swirling the glass in his hand, watching it shift.
I clench my fists. "If you don't fucking leave, I'll throw up just so you'll have to clean it."
His lips twitch like he's actually amused. "Hallucinations kicking in already? Even if you could, you think I'd clean up after you?"
I glare. "Would it be beneath you, oh mighty captor?"
His smirk widens, but there is something darker behind it now. Twisted.
"You want to know what's beneath me?" His voice is low, almost thoughtful, like he's considering some new idea.
Without warning, he pours the water onto the floor.
I freeze.
The glass tips. The water spills. Drop by drop, sinking into the cracks of the stone beneath me.
Gone.
I think I might actually be sick. He knows exactly what it did to me. I didn't even realize I was reaching for it.
He crouches again, leaning in so close his breath skims my cheek.
"I own you," he murmurs, so fucking sure of himself. "The sooner you stop fighting back, the better."
I turn my head slowly, lips parting, gaze locked onto his like I'm about to say something vicious that would cut as deep as he deserves. Instead, I spit in his face.
Cut my throat, Ghost. Come on, finish this.
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. The tension suffocating.
He exhales through his nose slowly, lifting a single hand to wipe the spit from his cheek. Then, to my absolute horror, he grins.
"You're wasting precious fluids. Not very smart of you, adorable," he says — and suddenly grabs my jaw.
His grip tightens, forcing my mouth open. Before I even register what's happening, he spits in my mouth.
"There," he growls, voice laced with threat. "That should hold you for a few more hours."
Then he stands and walks out, leaving me alone with nothing but my own ruined, shaking body and the sound of water dripping through the cracks of my soul.
Ghost
I hear her moving in the cell, slow, sluggish and weak. The defiant girl who threw every fucking survival instinct out the window just to spite me is starting to crumble.
And it feels good.
It should feel better. Why the fuck doesn’t it feel better?
I pace in front of the heavy wooden door, fingers flexing restlessly at my sides. I have to see her.
I tell myself it's because I need to gauge how close she is to giving up completely. That it isn't about the fact that for the first time in thirteen years, I feel fucking alive again.
I force myself to focus, to remember the goal. Control. Power. Revenge. I didn't spend years waiting for this moment just to let my own mind betray me.
She's going to break and I'm going to enjoy every second of it.
Adora
Thirst is a cruel fucking thing.
It's not just the dryness in my throat, the tight, cracked skin of my lips, or the pounding ache behind my eyes. It's the way my body betrays me, the way my thoughts narrow down to a single, all-consuming need.
Water.
A single drop.
A sip.
Anything to make the fire in my throat stop burning.
I hate that I want it. Hate that he knows I want it.
He planned this perfectly. All he has to do is wait, and I'm afraid I'll do anything he wants for the relief. But he was always good at making me do anything he wanted, wasn’t he?
…
He slides the ice cube over my lips, observing his work like he’s creating a masterpiece. I could get lost forever in his eyes and never let myself be found.
He looks at me as if he just heard my thoughts, his mouth curving at the corners. Like he’s daring me to do just that — get lost in him.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice so low and deep the words land straight in the middle of my chest. “Now you’ve tasted your first drop of alcohol.”
He tosses the ice cube back into his beer glass on the bar top, smile widening, never taking his eyes off me. It’s hot outside but he’s so much fucking hotter.
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, but I can’t taste the beer or feel the cold the ice left behind. All I can taste is him.
His gaze drops to my lips, and the smile disappears. He’s done teasing.
“Don’t go home tonight,” he mutters, cupping the side of my neck and brushing his thumb over my mouth.
He always asks me for more time.
I should deny him. It’s already past my curfew, and he’s made me push the limits every day this month. But he’s irresistible, and for once, I want to feel, to live and let myself be bad.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s go to your room.”
…
I drag my tongue across my dry and swollen lips, wincing at the sting — and at that memory.
I have spent years running from the demons in my head, from the memories I can't escape, and now he's locked me in a place where the only thing I have is my own mind.
My stomach twists, pain rippling through my gut like a warning shot.
I ignore it.
Ghost is playing a vile fucking game. I knew he would hurt me. I knew he would punish me for the lie I told. But this is a whole new level of sadistic.
I can handle pain. I hardened myself to it a long time ago. Pain is a physical thing. It has limits. But this? This is fucking insidious. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm not going to last much longer.
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
I exhale slowly and focus on the rhythmic pounding in my skull, on anything but him.
He's inside.
"How does it feel, adorable?" His voice is quiet, smooth. Like he's actually curious, not playing his game. “Knowing that no matter how hard you fight, in the end your body will still beg for me.”
My breath catches. He sees it. I wish he didn't.
His boots scrape against the floor as he crouches down in front of me, too fucking close. I can feel his heat, the scent of leather and firewood embracing me.
I cling to the last shreds of my pride and refuse to look at him, trying to pretend his presence doesn’t affect me at all.
His fingers skim my knee. I tense, but don't pull away. For some fucked up reason his touch feels soothing. Calming.
"You feel it now, don't you?"
I swallow, my throat raw. I don't answer.
"That ache in your throat, the fire in your stomach, the way your body is already starting to shut down, little by little."
His hand slides higher, slow, calculated and so fucking diabolical. It’s a reminder that I’m here, that I’m his, and that no matter how much I try to fight him, I need him.
My fingers grip the blanket tighter. "Fuck you."
He laughs, a quiet, amused sound that feels like it’s mocking my defiance.
"You will," he murmurs. What?
He stands, stepping back, looking down at me with that cold, unreadable expression.
I force myself to meet his gaze. The resolve in his eyes stuns me for a moment. He isn't bluffing. He isn't going to let me die, but he is going to let me suffer. He's enjoying this fucked up plan of his too much.
He smirks suddenly, something wicked flickering behind his eyes. “You know, there’s another way to get rid of the thirst.”
I blink at him, confused. “What?”
He leans in, that smirk still etched across his face. “You could suck my cock. I’ll fill you with enough cum to keep you hydrated for all the months ahead of us.”
Stunned silence bounces off the walls. Rage burns me from the inside. I throw him the deadliest glare I can manage in my current state.
“Suck your own cock and choke on it, you miserable asshole,” I snap weakly, the words scraping my throat.
He chuckles, but when he turns to leave — a glass of water still in his hand — I feel something hollow tear through my chest.
What is he doing to me?
It's been two days with no water. Only two? Three? Is that right? I can't tell anymore. Time stretches in strange ways in this cell — twisting, unraveling, slipping through my fingers. All I know is that my body is breaking down. My limbs are heavy, my fingers numb. The fever is setting in.
This is it.
I'm not strong enough to last any longer. I put up a good fight, didn't I?
I press my forehead against my knees, swallowing against the burning dryness, against the bile rising in my throat.
I did this to myself.
I'm such a fucking idiot.
I hear him step inside, the sound like a warning of what's to come. He waits a moment before he speaks, his voice soft but cruel.
"Look at me, adorable."
Fuck you, asshole. I don't move.
The silence stretches like the shadows over a grave. Then something cold touches my arm.
Water.
A single, perfect droplet sliding over my skin.
Mocking me.
My hands curl into fists, my entire body coiling so tightly it hurts.
"You're there," he murmurs.
I swallow. Dry. Useless.
"Would you like a drink, adorable?" he continues, voice calm. So fucking calm.
His fingers tilt my chin toward him. Gentle, almost with pity.
"All you have to do is kiss me." My heart drops. "Right here," he points to the right corner of his mouth.
My soul shatters. I used to kiss him there. Before. It was like a ritual. A private joke, remembering our first, fumbled kiss.
"Do it."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I want to. I want to so fucking badly.
I want the water. I want relief.
I want him to stop watching me like he can see inside me, see the exact second my willpower finally crumbles.
I choke back a sob.
His breath brushes against my ear.
"Do it, Adora."
His voice is so soft. Tender. Just like the way he used to speak to me before. Before I betrayed him. Before I ruined him.
I break.
I turn my head toward him, almost shaking. I look right into his eyes when my cracked lips brush the corner of his mouth.
Memories invade my mind. Of a time when I felt loved. Cared for. If I had any left in me, tears would fall down my cheeks.
Instead, grief grips my heart and squeezes so hard my breath cuts off.
When I lean back, he doesn't look victorious. He looks haunted.
Ghost
I win. A piece of her broke right now, and that’s all that matters.
I lift the glass to her lips, tilting it just enough to let her have a tiny sip. She makes a small, wrecked sound. Desperate. Is she desperate enough, though? I pull the glass back, watching her closely. She lets out a strangled noise, half gasp, half sob, her fingers weakly gripping my wrist.
Asking.
Begging.
That’s what I was looking for. But seeing her like this… feels empty. I shouldn’t have fucking asked for that kiss.
I exhale slowly, pressing the rim of the glass to her lips again, watching her lashes flutter as relief finally hits her. She drinks greedily, gasping between sips, fingers still clutching my wrist like she’d disappear if she let go.
When the glass is empty, I let it fall to the ground and keep watching her.
She breathes shakily, still trembling, still too fucking soft and vulnerable and fragile.
I lift my hand to her face, brushing my thumb across her lower lip, catching the last drop of water before it can slip away.
Without thinking, I drag that same thumb across my own mouth.
She stills. So do I.
Our gazes lock, and for one, terrifying second, I'm not looking at the woman who destroyed me. I'm looking at the only person who has ever made me feel anything real.
I hate myself more for this weakness. This is not fucking happening.
I lean in, my lips a breath away from hers, and whisper, "You're mine now, adorable."
She doesn't deny it or pull away. When I stand up and leave her there, alone in the cell, we both know there’s no coming back from this.