Page 81 of Rescuing Ember

A door creaks open. They shove me inside, and I collapse in an ungraceful heap. As the lock clicks shut, I spiral back into the numbing embrace of oblivion.

My head throbs, a dull, persistent ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. Consciousness creeps back slowly, like wading through molasses. The first sensation that hits me is the taste of copper—blood, thick and cloying on my tongue. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper.

Slowly, I force my eyes open. Big mistake. The world swims, a nauseating blur of shadows and a sickly yellow light. I blink hard, willing my vision to focus. As it does, reality crashes in with brutal clarity.

I’m strapped to a chair in what looks like a set piece from a horror movie. Rusty pipes snake across a ceiling stained with years of water damage and God knows what else. A single bulb dangles overhead, its light flickering erratically, casting monstrous shadows that writhe on the concrete walls.

The air is thick with the stench of mildew and something worse—the unmistakable coppery bite of old blood.

Pain radiates through my body as I take stock of my injuries. My ribs scream in protest with each breath, a sharp counterpoint to the dull throb in my skull. Something warm and sticky trickles down my chin—probably a cut to my forehead. The way the room keeps tilting suggests a concussion. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I test my restraints, careful to keep the movement subtle. Thick leather straps bite into my wrists and ankles, securing me to a chair that feels bolted to the floor.

No give.

No weak points I can exploit.

Whoever trussed me up knew what they were doing.

Memories flash through my mind in disjointed fragments. Ember’s terrified face as they dragged her away—the sickening crunch of a fist connecting with my jaw. Darkness closing in as a boot slammed into my temple.

Ember. Where is she? What are they doing to her? The thought sends a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, momentarily cutting through the fog of pain and disorientation.

Focus, Hawkins. Assess. Plan. Survive.

I force myself to catalog every detail of my surroundings, pushing past the pounding in my skull. The room is small, maybe ten by twelve feet. No windows, just a heavy metal door opposite me.

The walls are bare concrete, stained and crumbling in places. A small drain in the center of the floor is clogged with what looks disturbingly like hair.

In the corner, a rusted cart holds an assortment of objects that make my stomach churn: pliers, scales, and things I don’t want to name. The message is clear: this is a place designed for pain.

A sudden creak makes me stiffen. The door swings open with agonizing slowness, hinges protesting. I brace myself, muscles coiling despite the restraints.

Damien Wolfe steps into the room, and the temperature drops ten degrees. He’s a study in contrasts—impeccably tailored suit, not a hair out of place, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. He looks like he’s stepped out of a board meeting or a high-end fashion shoot.

His eyes, though… Those are pure death. Cold. Calculating. They sweep over me, assessing, measuring. I force my face into a mask of indifference, even as every instinct screams danger.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Wolfe’s voice is smooth as silk and pleasant. It sends chills down my spine. “I do hope you’re finding your accommodations—adequate.”

I say nothing. Reaction is a weakness, and I can’t afford to give him an inch.

“Tsk, tsk.” Wolfe shakes his head like a disappointed teacher. “Now, now. There’s no need for the silent treatment. We’re all friends here.”

He moves closer, each step measured and deliberate. His expensive cologne mingles with the room’s foul odors in a way that turns my stomach.

“I must say, I’m impressed,” Wolfe continues, circling my chair. I resist the urge to crane my neck to keep him in sight. “You’ve led us on quite the merry chase. It’s not often someone manages to slip through my fingers so—persistently.”

He stops directly in front of me, hands clasped behind his back. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain cold and analytical.

“I’ll admit, I underestimated you. A mistake I won’t be repeating.” Wolfe leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You see, Mr. Hawkins, I pride myself on being thorough. On knowing my opponents inside and out.”

His hand shoots out, fingers gripping my jaw with surprising strength. He forces my head up, studying my face like a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

“And you, my friend, are quite the fascinating puzzle.”

I meet his gaze, pouring every ounce of defiance into my glare. Wolfe’s smile widens, a predator scenting blood.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “This is going to be most enlightening.”

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