She was yet to process the fact that this teen had roped her into a problem that was not hers, and now another? The air in the room felt thick, tasting of old oil and stagnant fear.
"Ro—royalty? Where had you heard that from?" She questioned, pursing her lips in wonderment. The words felt alien, like a script from a movie she hadn't auditioned for. Perhaps the man hit her too hard, and her brain was simply misfiring, creating grand delusions to shield her from the grim reality of the basement.
Vincent shook his head, his expression grim despite the bruises that marred his youthful face.
"I'm serious, Alina. They've been saying it here throughout the day—while they thought I was unconscious, while they were prepping the table.
They weren't talking about you like you were a victim. They were talking like you were a prize."
"You've got it all wrong, Vincent. I'm Alina Gray, please," she interrupted him with a hardened look on her face.
