Elena.>>>>
I woke up to the sound of dripping water.
It was slow, steady, and unbearably loud in the silence, each drop hitting concrete with a hollow echo. My head felt heavy, my mouth bone-dry, and the first thing I noticed was the burn at my wrists — rope, coarse and tight enough to bite through skin.
I blinked against the dim light. The air was damp, cold enough to seep into my bones, and the faint stench of mold made my stomach roll.
I forced my eyes to focus.
Concrete walls. Rust stains. A high, barred window letting in a sliver of grey daylight. To my right — a metal table littered with cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and something that looked like a knife. My throat tightened.
I didn't move. Not yet. I kept my breathing slow and quiet, letting my gaze travel the room. Panicking won't do me any good In this situation.
A door stood across from me, its peeling paint the only splash of color in the gloom. The exit. It felt impossibly far, maybe twenty feet away. Too far with my hands tied, my legs stiff from whatever hours I'd been here.
Still… it was there. And once I saw it, I couldn't stop staring.
I shifted slightly in the chair, wincing at the rasp of rope on skin. My wrists throbbed, raw and swollen, but I tested the slack anyway. Nothing.
"Awake already?"
The voice came from my left. My whole body went rigid.
A man stepped out from the shadows, tall, broad, with a face that might've been handsome if not for the crooked sneer. His jacket was worn leather, the sleeves dark at the cuffs like they'd been stained with oil… or something worse.
He crouched beside me, his eyes crawling over me like greasy hands.
"Been waitin' for you to open those pretty eyes," he said, his breath reeking of alcohol.
I didn't answer. My gaze darted back to the table, the knife, the glass bottle and then to the door. If only I could just…
Another man appeared behind him, shorter but stockier, rolling his shoulders like he'd been itching for a fight. He glanced at me and smirked.
"Boss says keep her breathing, but no one said we can't have some fun first."
The first man chuckled, a low, filthy sound.
"Exactly what I was thinking."
My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my ears. I swallowed, tasting nothing but dryness and panic.
The taller one reached for my hair, fingers curling in the strands, tugging my head back to make me look at him.
"You think Damien's coming for you?" he asked. "Vale's got him running in circles. He's nowhere close."
I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to say Damien would burn the world to find me. Maybe not because he liked me but his pride, his pride was so potent I banked on it that he'd find me. He wouldn't won't to loose to a Vale and most especially infront of the world. So for that sole reason I knew Damien would find me. But I didn't waste the breath. I kept my mouth shut and my mind on the door.
His eyes narrowed, like he didn't like that I wasn't giving him the reaction he wanted. His hand slid to the zipper at my side, the sound of it coming undone far too loud in the stillness.
"Don't," I said, my voice low but sharp. My eyes immediately rising up to his face.
He grinned wider.
"Make me."
The zipper reached the bottom. My dress slackened around me, slipping off one shoulder. My pulse surged so hard it made my vision blur, but I forced my focus on the ropes. One loop near my left wrist felt slightly looser —not much, but enough to try.
The shorter man moved behind me, gripping my shoulders to keep me still while the taller one tugged at the fabric. The rip was sharp and brutal, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties.
Cold air prickled against my skin, but the humiliation burned hotter.
I kicked out instinctively, my foot connecting with the taller man's shin. He grunted and stumbled back.
"Bitch," the stockier one hissed, punching me in my stomach so hard my vision blurred for a moment.
That movement tightened the rope for a split second — but then, I felt it. The looser loop slipped just a hair more.
They were arguing now, their voices sharp. One wanted to "teach me a lesson," the other wanted to "get it over with." I didn't care. I twisted my wrist hard, feeling fibers snap and skin split.
The blood on my hands made it easier, more slippery. My hand slid free.
The taller one lunged toward me again, but I was already moving. I grabbed the broken wooden armrest of the chair and swung it like a club. It connected with the side of his head in a sick, meaty thud.
The stockier man swore and charged. I ducked low, shoving him backward with my shoulder, and bolted for the table. My bare feet slapped the cold floor as I snatched the knife.
The exit was there — closer now — but so were their footsteps.
I ran.
Pain shot up my calves, my breath ragged and sharp. The door handle was rusted, stiff, but I yanked it hard enough to make my shoulder ache. It gave way, and the faint scent of rain hit me.
Outside.
I stumbled into an alley, grey light spilling over cracked asphalt. My knees almost gave out, but I kept moving, knife clutched in my shaking hand. My vision tunneled — the world narrowing to the sound of my heartbeat and the feel of the cold air in my lungs.
Then — a figure ahead. Tall. Dark coat. For a moment I was scared it was one of Vale's men, was cursing my self for the failed escape attempt. But no, on a closer look.
Damien.
He was running full tilt toward me, eyes wide, hair plastered to his forehead with rain. His coat flared with each stride, his face twisted in something between relief and murderous rage.
When he reached me, his arms came around me so fast I almost dropped the knife. My body just… gave up.
I collapsed into him, my face pressed to his chest, his scent cutting through the stench of that room. My knees buckled, but his hold didn't waver.
"I've got you, I've got you baby." he growled into my hair. "No one's ever touching you again. You're safe."
And for the first time this whole charade started. I believed it. Believed him.