Page 205 of Never Die for a Sinner
Unfortunately, all I can do is black out.
The first thing I notice when my senses crawl back from the void is the sickness.
It doesn’t just settle in my stomach—itravagesit, twisting and roiling like a nest of snakes. Acid claws up my throat, leaving a trail of fire as I shift on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor. Pain radiates from every point of contact. My joints groan, stiff from whatever cocktail of drugs Alex injected me with.
The air is heavy. Wet. Foul. It clings to my throat, thick with the scent of mildew, rust, and something unmistakably iron—blood.It coats the back of my tongue with every breath I take, and I gag before I even open my eyes.
When I do, it’s like peeling open wounds.
Light blisters against my vision, too bright, too raw. The room spins in nauseating circles, the walls pulsing with each throb of my skull like they’re breathing in tandem with me. It takes everything not to retch on the floor. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. My lungs flutter, struggling to draw in air that won’t come clean.
Then the world sharpens—painfully, cruelly—into clarity.
“Well, well, well . . .” The voice slithers out from the shadows, oozing satisfaction. “Look who’s finally decided to wake up.”
The nausea spikes so hard I nearly lose it right there.
Alex.
He’s draped in a rusted, cracked metal chair in the corner like he owns the fucking world, one leg crossed lazily over the other, arms spread like a bored king surveying his new toy.
“Sleep well?”
“You . . .” My voice scrapes out of my throat like broken glass. I can barely form words through the fury threatening to combust inside me. “You fuckingasshole.”
He smiles, completely unbothered. “I tried to help you, Ava. I really did.”
With a lazy nudge of his foot, he kicks a filthy metal bowl across the floor toward me. Water sloshes inside, bits of dirt and hair swirling on the surface.
“Go on,” he says. “You’re probably thirsty.”
Like I’m a fucking dog.
I grip the bowl and hurl it across the room with every ounce of strength I can muster. It bounces off the ground, spilling water over his boots.
“Drink it yourself, dickhead.”
His jaw ticks. The gleam in his eyes dims, just a fraction, replaced by something hungrier. Meaner.
“Tsk-tsk.” His voice takes on that condescending lilt, like he’s scolding a child. “See? I told you Cross was a bad influence. Listen to that mouth. Not very becoming, Ava.”
He reaches beside him and lifts a tray—dry toast curled at the edges, pale and lifeless like it died weeks ago.
“Hungry?” He tosses it at me, and it lands with a softplopat my feet.
“Fuck you.”
His grin widens. Predatory. All teeth, no soul. “We’ll get there.”
Something icy unfurls in my chest.
“Eat,” he orders.
“No.”
His expression hardens. The playful cruelty drains away, replaced with something colder.
“Ava, Ava, Ava . . .” He stands slowly, his boots echoing against the concrete. “You’re not making this easy.”
