Page 159 of Inevitable Endings
“And you trust me now,” I whisper. “Don’t you?”
She nods, frantic.
“Say it.”
“I trust you,” she breathes, voice breaking.
I grip her jaw again, tighter this time. A possessive, dominant hold that tells her exactly where she is, beneath me, inside my grasp, safe only because I say so.
And I rise, her in my arms, the blanket falling away, forgotten. My bruised body is equally forgotten.
The porch creaks beneath our weight, and the cold wind howls around us like it knows exactly what’s coming.
I carry her inside. Through the hall. Down the steps.
Straight to the cell.
But this time, the lock doesn’t matter.
This time, she’s walking into the dark with open eyes.
Because this time—it’s hers.
Because this time—so am I.
Chapter 65
Collared by the Devil
Isabella
I’m floating, and heavy all at once.
My mouth is desert-dry. My tongue feels swollen behind my teeth, and there’s a fuzz in my skull that makes the walls look like they’re pulsing in and out. A groan claws its way up my throat as I try to roll over, only to find one of my arms won’t move. Dead weight. No—restrained.
The pain behind my eyes flares as I blink into consciousness.
The vision sharpens slowly, and when it does, everything in me stills.
I know this room.
I remember our conversation.
I remember the empty wine bottle, but did I drink that much?
The dark, padded walls. No windows. No lights other than the artificial strip high above. One stained mattress on the floor. A chair that looks like it’s never been sat in. And the camera. The red recording light in the corner, blinking like a heartbeat. The door, smooth and gripless, camouflaged into the wall.
Terror snakes its way into my chest, curling around my ribs.
I sit up fast, too fast. My head reels, the remnants of wine and whatever else he gave me roaring like static through my system. I nearly fall back again. My arms strain forward on instinct, but they don’t move far. Leather groans against leather.
That’s when I see them.
Thick black belts wrapped around each of my thighs, anchored to matching cuffs around my wrists by short, silver chains. They pin my arms down against my legs, and I yank—hard.
They don’t budge.
“Aslanov!” I scream, hair clinging to my damp face as I whip my head to the side. My voice cracks. My pulse is racing, sweat prickling along my spine and making the leather itch against my skin.
