Page 95 of Made For Ruin

LAINEY

My head feelslike it’s been split open with an ax, and my vision swims when I try to open my eyes.

Everything’s a blur—shapes and shadows that don’t make sense.

I blink hard, trying to clear the fog, but the pounding in my skull only gets worse. The air smells stale, like damp wood and something metallic.

Where the hell am I?

I shift, or try to, but my wrists are pinned behind me, bound so tightly the rope bites into my skin. Panic surges, raw and immediate, as I yank against the restraints.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, my voice hoarse. My heart’s racing, thumping so loud it drowns out everything else.

The memories come in brutal flashes. Smoke filling the diner kitchen. Strong hands grabbing me from behind. Derrick’s voice saying “I’m sorry” before something pressed against my mouth, sharp and chemical. Then darkness.

They drugged me. The realization makes my stomach heave. Whatever they gave me still pulses through my system, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. My tongue feels thick. Words tangle before they form.

Focus. I need to focus.

I force my eyes open wider, willing the room to stop spinning. Wooden walls rise around me, the panels weathered with age. Faded curtains hang limp against grimy windows. Beyond them, water stretches blue and endless.

Something about this place tugs at my memory, but the drugs twist everything into nightmare shapes.

The rope burns with each small movement. My shoulders scream from being wrenched backward. Sweat trickles down my spine.

“Hello?” The word scrapes past my dry throat. Silence answers.

A muffled thud echoes through the wall. Then, a grunt of pain. I know that voice.

“Derrick?” I try to turn my head toward the sound. The movement sends the room spinning.

Another thud. Another pained sound. They have Derrick, too.

The chair beneath me is solid oak. Heavy. Professional knots hold me in place, precise and unforgiving. These people know exactly what they’re doing.

I think of Marcus. Does he know I’m missing? Just this morning he kissed me goodbye at the cabin, told me to drive safe down the mountain. Said he’d see me for dinner.

Tears burn, but I blink them back. I can’t break. Not now. Marcus will come. He has to come.

The view through the window slowly sharpens into familiar shapes. Pine trees frame a wooden dock stretching into calm water. Recognition slams through me with stunning force.

The lake house. My parents’ lake house. This room was my childhood bedroom during summer vacations. The same walls where I hung posters of boy bands. The same window where I watched storms roll across the water.

The door creaks open, and a figure steps inside. Through the haze of drugs, I squint to make out his features.

Enzo Castellano. He's carrying a gun, the metal glinting in the dim light.

He looks different than he did at his daughter's wedding—his suit replaced by dark jeans and a black shirt, his eyes hard and calculating.

"Lainey," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "I trust you're finding everything satisfactory?"

I stare at him, my tongue thick in my mouth. "What did you give me?"

A smile curves his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Just something to ease the journey. No need to worry."

He steps closer, his expensive cologne filling my nostrils. I try to shrink back, but the ropes hold me in place.

"Derrick," I manage to say. "Where's Derrick?"

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