Page 32 of Fire and Silk
My stomach clenches.
He turns back, cutting me off with a soft voice laced in theatrical disappointment. “I didn’t think our meeting would be this intense,” he says, holding his hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him somewhere deeper than cartilage. “But I’ll be back when you’re ready to be nicer, okay?”
He winks.
And just like that, he strolls past me, past the guards, humming under his breath like we’re not standing in the middle of a velvet-wrapped prison and I’m not shaking with rage and fear.
The door slams shut behind him.
The finality of it hits harder than the guards’ hands.
One of them shoves me forward, hard. I fall—knees first, palms scraping the polished floor. The sound echoes like a slap against the walls. Then their footsteps retreat, fast and bored, like they’ve done this a thousand times.
The lock clicks.
Real, stifling silence.
My shoulders tremble. My arms start to give.
I don’t rise. I can’t.
I slide down, curling in on myself. My forehead rests against the cool tile. My breaths come fast and shaky—then burst out of me all at once.
I sob.
Not the clean kind.
Not the elegant, wounded kind.
This is ugly, cracking, soul-shaking grief.
Tears wet the tile beneath me. My fingers curl against the floor like they’re trying to claw into the earth itself. My chest burns. The realization—he’s not letting me go—lands heavy and final. There’s no ransom. No reason. Just… this.
He wants me.
And no one’s coming.
Nicola might look, sure. But Nicola is just one girl. One poor girl. One tired, hungry, overworked girl who has enough of her own nightmares to fight through.
No cops. No family.
I collapse sideways, folding into myself on the cold, unforgiving tile. My cheek presses against it, sticky with the sweat and tears already slicking my skin. I try to hold back the sob that swells in my chest, but it tears out anyway— raw, jagged, and ugly.
It’s not delicate. Not cinematic.
It’s the kind of sob that scrapes up from the gut, choking its way through clenched teeth, gurgling into the air like a wounded animal. I don’t just cry—I unravel. My fists clench against the floor. My toes curl against the hem of my dress. My spine curls tighter, like I can make myself disappear if I fold small enough.
He’s not letting me go.
Not tomorrow. Not next week.
Not ever.
No one even knows where I am. No onecanknow. He made sure of that.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold the thought back, but it slams through anyway.
Nicola.
