Chapter 17
Inez
Cold. That's the first thing. Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind that seeps. Into your bones. Into your skin. Like ice stretched too thin.
I try to open my eyes, but they're so heavy. Like someone sewed weights into my eyelids. My head is pounding. Dull. Throbbing. In time with my heartbeat. My mouth tastes like metal. Chemicals. Bitter. Wrong.
I force my eyes open anyway, blinking against dim light filtering through the room. It's not darkness exactly. There's a single bulb somewhere above me. Flickering. Weak. Casting shadows that dance across stained concrete walls.
The ceiling is cracked. Water-damaged. Streaked with mold that spreads like black veins.
Where am I?
I try to remember, but my thoughts are sluggish. Moving through thick fog.
I was...
I was with Becca.
We were in the warehouse.
There was gunfire. Explosions. Chaos.
And then...
Nothing.
Just blackness.
How long have I been out? Hours? Days? I don't know. I can't know.
The drugs are still in my system. I can feel them pulling at me. Dragging me back under even as I fight to stay conscious.
I try to move. That's when I realize I'm lying on something damp. Cold. A mattress, I think. Though it's barely that. Just a thin, stained thing on bare concrete. Reeking of mildew. Piss. Something worse. Something rotten that makes my stomach turn.
I'm naked.
The realization comes slow. Like my brain is moving through syrup.
Naked and cold and wet.
Why am I wet?
I try to lift my arms, but they're so heavy. Like they're not mine anymore. Like they belong to someone else. My legs won't respond either. I'm trapped in my own body. A prisoner behind my own eyes.
Panic starts to build in my chest. A tight knot that makes it hard to breathe.
I need to move. I need to get up. I need to—
There's weight on me. Pressure. On my chest. On my hips.
I blink again, trying to focus. Trying to understand.
There's someone—
A man—
On top of me.
His breathing is heavy. Ragged. Punctuated by low moans that make my skin crawl. I can feel his weight crushing down on me, pinning me to the filthy mattress. His hands are on my chest. Groping. Squeezing.
And I can feel him moving. Thrusting. Between my legs. Inside me.
The realization crashes through the fog like ice water.
Oh God.
Oh God no.
I try to speak. Try to say no. Try to scream. But my voice comes out slurred. Broken. Barely a whisper.
"N-no... stop..."
The words dissolve into nothing.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't even pause. He just keeps moving. Keeps moaning. His breath hot and rancid against my ear.
I try to focus on his face, but my vision is blurry. Everything doubled. Distorted. I can make out the shape of him. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Stubble on his jaw. But the details won't come together.
My body is screaming at me. Trying to tell me something.
And that's when I feel it:
Burning.
Sharp, stinging pain on my neck. My shoulders. My arms.
I try to look down, but I can barely move my head. There are cuts all over me. Deep scratches like I've been clawed. Like someone dragged their nails down my skin again and again. Some of them are still bleeding. Thin trails of red running down my arms. Pooling in the hollow of my collarbone.
How did I get these?
I don't remember. I don't remember anything except waking up here. In this filthy room. With this man on top of me.
The drugs have stolen my memory. Stolen my ability to fight. Stolen everything except the pain. The terror. The horrible, crushing weight of him.
I try again to push him away. To move my arms. To do something. Anything.
But my body won't obey.
My arms lift maybe an inch before they fall back down. Useless. Weak.
I try to thrash. To buck him off. But my movements are sluggish. Uncoordinated. Like I'm moving underwater. Every attempt sends pain shooting through my body. My head pounds harder. My muscles scream in protest. My ribs ache like they've been kicked.
I'm crying now. Tears streaming down my face. Mixing with the sweat. The grime.
I'm whimpering. Begging him to stop. My voice cracking. Breaking.
"Please... please get off me... please..."
But he ignores me completely. He leans down, his mouth close to my ear, and whispers things that make my stomach turn. His voice is slurred. Aggressive. Thick with alcohol and something darker.
"You're so fucking tight," he groans.
"You like this, don't you? You fucking like it."
I don't.
I don't.
I want to scream at him. To tell him he's wrong. But I can't form the words. I can only cry. And shake. And pray for it to end.
He bites down hard on my shoulder, and I feel it—
The sharp sting. The pressure. The tearing of skin.
Blood wells up hot against my collarbone.
I cry out. A broken, animal sound.
And he groans louder, his tongue lapping at the wound. Tasting.
"Fuck," he whispers against my skin. "I love the taste of copper when I'm fucking you."
His hips thrust harder. Brutal.
"You bleed so pretty," he breathes. "So, fucking pretty."
"I like it when you bleed."
"Makes it better."
"Makes you tighter."
I'm going to be sick. I can feel bile rising in my throat, but I can't move. Can't turn my head. Can't do anything but lie here and take it.
He pulls back slightly, looking down at me with glazed eyes.
"You taste like fucking heaven," he slurs. "Blood and cunt. Best combination there is."
I manage to claw at his back with what little strength I have left, my nails digging into his skin. And for a moment I think maybe he'll stop. Maybe he'll get off me.
But instead, he pulls back and punches me hard in the eye.
The impact is explosive.
White-hot pain blooms across my face, radiating out from my eye socket like fire.
I scream—
Or try to—
But the sound comes out strangled. Weak.
My vision goes dark on one side. Stars bursting behind my eyelids. I can feel my eye swelling already. The skin around it puffs up. Hot. Tender.
I try to protect myself. To bring my hands up to my face. But there's nowhere to go. He's still on top of me. Still moving. Still forcing himself inside me like I'm nothing. Like I'm just a thing to be used.
"Fucking bitch," he snarls. "You scratch me again and I'll break your fucking jaw."
The door slams open with such force it shakes the walls.
The sound cuts through everything—the man's moaning, my crying, the pounding in my head.
Heavy footsteps. Fast. Furious.
"What the fuck—"
A voice roars. Deep. Brutal.
And then the weight is gone.
The man is ripped off me so suddenly I gasp, my body jerking with the absence of him.
I hear the impact—flesh and bone hitting concrete—and then the sickening crunch of something breaking. A nose, maybe. Or teeth.
The guard is massive. Towering over the man who's now sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from his face.
The guard's voice is pure rage. A roar that fills the room.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
He kicks him. Hard. In the ribs.
The man gasps. Tries to curl up. But the guard doesn't stop.
"We told you NOT to fucking hit the girls!"
Another kick. To the stomach.
"You think the boss won't find out?!"
Kick.
"You think he won't fucking kill you for this?!"
The man tries to argue through blood and broken teeth, his voice high. Panicked.
"She was waking up—I had to—she was fighting—I want my fucking money back—"
The guard doesn't respond with words. He pulls his handgun from his belt and brings it down hard across the man's skull.
Once.
Twice.
The sound is wet. Final. Like a melon splitting open.
Blood sprays across the concrete. Dark. Thick.
The man drops. Gasping. Whimpering. Scrambling for his clothes with shaking hands. He's bleeding from his head. His face. His mouth. Teeth scattered on the floor like broken glass.
He stumbles toward the door. Half-dressed. Broken.
And the guard lets him go.
"Get the fuck out," the guard snarls. "And don't come back."
"You're fucking banned."
"If I see you again, I'll put a bullet in your skull."
The door slams shut, and the room falls into silence.
I'm shaking so hard I can't stop. My entire body convulsing with cold. Fear. Shock.
I can't catch my breath. I can't think. I can't do anything except lie here on this filthy mattress. Naked. Bleeding. Broken.
Cold. That's the first thing. Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind that seeps. Into your
18
Becca
I wake up warm.
That's the first thing I notice. Not the ache in my ribs. Not the soreness between my legs. Just warmth.
Silas's arms are wrapped around me like I'm something precious. Something fragile. Like if he lets go, I'll disappear.
His chest is pressed against my back, rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. One arm is tucked under my head, the other draped across my waist, his hand splayed possessively over my stomach. His grip is firm. Protective. Almost desperate. Like he's afraid someone might steal me in the night.
I shift slightly, testing my body. Everything hurts. But it's a different kind of hurt than before. Dull. Manageable.
I can't tell if it's from the sex—God, the sex—or if I'm still healing from everything else. Probably both.
My thighs are sore. My hips ache. There's a pleasant burn deep inside me that makes my face flush just thinking about it.
But beneath that, there's still the tenderness in my ribs.
The bruises that haven't fully faded. The reminder that just days ago, I was tied to a chair in a warehouse waiting to be sold.
I'm getting stronger, though. I can feel it. My body is knitting itself back together. Slowly. Carefully.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see Silas's face. His eyes are still closed. His jaw relaxed. He looks younger when he sleeps. Less guarded. Less like a man who's seen too much darkness.
I study the lines of his face. The sharp angle of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The faint scar above his left eyebrow that I never noticed before.
He's beautiful.
Dangerous and beautiful.