Chapter 13
The Flame
Pain greeted me before consciousness properly did.
A deep ache pulsed through my ribs with every breath, my shoulder burned, and my head throbbed so viciously it felt as though someone had cracked my skull open and stitched it back together incorrectly.
For several long seconds, all I could do was lie there and breathe through it, caught somewhere between sleep and awareness whilst the fog slowly lifted from my brain.
Where was I? And what had happened to me?
Opening my eyes was too painful. I tried to lift my arm to cover them, only to find my arm screaming in protest before I’d even really tried.
And so I tried to figure out my surroundings based on what I could feel and hear.
The bed beneath me was unfamiliar. That was the first realisation to hit.
Then the smell. I could smell the stone and the damp. I could smell the mustiness from the rain seeping into the structure of the place. And then, most concerning of all, was the smell of something metallic lingering faintly beneath it all.
This was not the fluffy duvet in my bedroom. This smelled nothing like the scent I sprayed every night—sweet almond and macaroon.
This smelled of rot. And it felt even worse.
My eyes snapped open, pushing past the pain barrier, and immediately landed on a dark ceiling overhead. Panic surged through me so violently that I lurched upright before my body could properly catch up, only for agony to rip through my ribs hard enough to force a cry from my throat.
I collapsed back against the headboard, clutching my side.
Bit by bit, fragments of my memory were returning to me.
I had been on my way to my engagement party.
I looked down at my wrists. The bracelet was gone, and my skin had that familiar sheen that told me some sort of cream had been applied to the friction burn I had caused by rubbing the jewellery back and forth.
Who would abduct me and then care for my wounds? It made no sense.
Think, Isabelle. Stop focusing on the fucking cream!
I’d been in the car with Frank… and then…
Oh God. The car.
Frank shouting my name.
The violent impact.
Blood across the dashboard.
The silver mask.
A sob lodged painfully in my chest.
“No…” I whispered weakly.
My eyes darted frantically around the room as my breathing quickened.
Stone walls surrounded me on all sides, dim lighting cast soft shadows across the concrete floor, and a heavy metal door stood on the far side of the room.
A wardrobe occupied one corner, a small table another, and beside the bed sat a bookshelf—although all the books had been removed.
I looked around at the rest of the walls, noticing that there were no windows, no clocks, no way for me to sense the time whatsoever.
I shoved the blanket off me and forced myself onto shaking legs, only for dizziness to hit instantly. Pain shot through my ankle and ribs at the same time, nearly dropping me straight back onto the mattress.
I caught myself against the wall instead, sucking in a sharp breath as nausea rolled through me.
I was still wearing the engagement dress—or what remained of it.
The white fabric hung torn down one side, stained with dirt and blood, one of the straps slipping uselessly down my shoulder. My hair hung over my shoulders, and I reached a hand up to my head, distinctly remembering that my hair had been tied in a high ponytail on my mother’s instruction.
The tiara was gone.
Good.
I never wanted to see the fucking thing again.
My trembling fingers brushed against my temple, wincing when they found dried blood tangled in my hairline.
I brought my hands back down and held them in front of me, noting the small scratches and dirt under my nails.
Every part of me hurt like hell, but there didn’t appear to be any lasting damage. I went through the checklist—wiggling my toes, rolling my ankles, bending my knees back and forth. Everything was working as it should, even if it screamed and begged me to stop. Nothing was broken. I would mend.
Provided I got the fuck out of here.
He kidnapped me.
The thought kept circling through my mind, impossible to fully process. Now that I’d had time to assess the damage, I’d remembered exactly what had happened.
Silas Falcone had kidnapped me.
Panic surged higher at the thought of his name, reminding me who I was dealing with.
I stumbled towards the door, ignoring the way my body protested every movement, and grabbed hold of the handle with both hands. It didn’t move.
Locked.
Of course it was locked. And this time, there was no Luca to rescue me.
Although Luca required electronics to hack. Not even he could get through whatever industrial-strength lock Silas had fitted to that door.
“Open the fucking door!” I screamed, slamming my fists against the metal hard enough to sting. “Do you hear me? Let me out!”
No one answered me. I tried again, my voice sounding more and more hoarse with every word.
Still nothing—not even the odd footsteps or voices in the distance.
Nothing except my own ragged breathing bouncing back at me.
I hit the door again anyway, weaker this time.
“Please…”
Still nothing.
The fight drained from me as quickly as it had appeared. My knees buckled, and I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, pulling my legs tightly against my chest despite the pain screaming through my ribs.
No one was coming.
That truth settled horribly inside me.
My parents probably thought I was dead. But Marco? Marco would lose his fucking mind.
And Adrien…
I honestly didn’t know what Adrien would do. He was probably more pissed off at the hit this took to his reputation—all the money in the world, and he couldn’t keep one woman safe? That had to be a blow to his ego.
And Frank…
The memory of the gunshot hit me so suddenly I doubled over, pressing a shaking hand over my mouth as nausea rolled violently through me.
Frank was dead.
I’d watched it happen. I’d seen the blood splatter. I remembered the ear-shattering sound of the gun.
Above all else, I remembered the way the silver mask had calmly turned back towards me afterwards, as though murdering someone in front of me meant absolutely nothing to him.
A knock sounded on the door behind me. My entire body jerked in response, scrambling back over to the bed, using the wooden post to help pull myself to my feet.
The lock disengaged.
Every muscle in my body locked tight as the heavy door slowly opened and measured footsteps crossed the floor beyond it.
Fear rooted me in place whilst my pulse hammered painfully against my ribs. The silver mask stared back at me from across the room, and every ounce of air seemed to leave my lungs at once.
He looked worse here, somehow. Larger. More unnatural.
The fitted black suit clung perfectly to his broad frame, his gloves spotless despite the blood I had seen splattered across them before everything went dark.
Or maybe that had been yesterday. I had no idea how much time had passed since the crash.
The mask tilted slightly as he looked me over.
Watching.
Assessing.
“Why the fuck are you always looking at me?” I spat out before I could stop myself. I hated it. I always had. It was the thing that unnerved me the most about him.
I could handle him being in the background. I could handle him hovering somewhere near me. I couldn’t handle the attention he always gave me, seeming to focus on nothing other than me.
It scared the fucking shit out of me.
He didn’t move closer, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the terror practically pouring out of me. Instead, he crossed the room with that same eerie stillness and placed a tray down onto the small table tucked beside the bed before stepping back once more.
All the while, he continued watching me.
My breathing turned shallow beneath the weight of that silver stare. It was impossible to read anything from him. There were no expressions to latch onto, no visible emotions behind the dark hollows of the mask. No humanity at all. Just cold silver reflecting the dim light back at me.
My eyes dropped reluctantly toward the tray. A bowl of soup sat beside slices of bread and a bottle of water, with painkillers carefully placed beside the plate.
The sight of them made something twist uncomfortably inside me.
He noticed.
Of course he had.
The bruising across my ribs, the way I struggled to stand properly, the blood dried near my temple.
His gaze flicked briefly towards my side before returning to my face, and once again I got the horrible impression that he was monitoring me rather than simply looking at me.
As though he were checking for something only he could see.
The panic clawing at my chest slowly curdled into anger.
“You killed Frank,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
The mask didn’t move.
“You shot him in front of me,” I continued, louder this time, hating how tears were beginning to burn my eyes again. “You murdered him and then dragged me here like some fucking animal!”
Still, he said nothing. Not a single word.
The silence was unbearable. It filled every corner of the room, pressing down on me until my skin felt too tight for my body.
“I hate you,” I whispered shakily. “Do you hear me? I fucking hate you.”
For the first time, something shifted.
Not much. Just the slightest tightening of his gloved hand at his side, subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
But I noticed.
I’d seen it that night in the office when he’d been displeased with the conversation between my dad and Rafael, and I saw it again now.
The silver mask remained fixed on me for another long moment before he finally turned towards the door again.
Fear surged instantly through my chest.
“Wait,” the word escaped before I could stop it.
He paused.
I hated myself for it immediately. Hated the desperation creeping into my voice. But the thought of being left completely alone down here suddenly felt worse than him standing in the room watching me.
The mask turned slightly back towards me.
“Where am I?” I whispered.
Silence stretched between us once more.
Then he walked out.
The heavy door shut behind him with a deep metallic thud before the lock clicked firmly back into place.
And just like that, I was alone again.