Page 33 of Map of Pain
Nick’s gaze darted to the corners of the room, calculating distances, measuring exposure. The bed felt too soft, too open. His breathing quickened as panic clawed up his throat.
No. Not again.I won’t wake up under another bed.
Nick forced himself to his feet, legs shaking with the effort. The bathroom. He needed water, needed to splash his face, needed to ground himself before he lost all control.
He stumbled toward the ensuite, pushing the door open with his shoulder. The small space still held traces of Luka’s presence—cheap soap lingering in the humid air, a damp towel hanging over the rack. Nick lurched toward the sink, turning the cold tap with trembling fingers.
Water splashed against his face, shocking his system back to the present. He gasped, blinking away droplets that clung to his eyelashes. His reflection stared back from the mirror, hollow-eyed, pale, but present.
Nick flexed his fingers, watching the movement in the mirror. His left arm endedabruptlyat the wrist, but he could still feel the phantom fingers moving, still sense the weight of a hand that nolongerexisted. The sensation was disorienting butstrangelycomforting—a reminder that parts of him remained even after they’d been taken away.
“It’s okay,”he whispered to his reflection.“You’re safe here.”
The words felt foreign on his tongue, but notentirelyfalse. Despite everything—the training, the conditioning, the years of being taught to fear and hate—Luka showed him nothing but kindness. The vampire protected him, cared for him, and asked for nothing in return.
A small wave of calm washed over him, momentary but real. His breathing steadied as he focused on concrete facts: Luka saved his life. Luka gave him choices. Luka stood between him and danger.
But then he saw it, looming in his peripheral vision. His breath caught.
A clawfoot tub.
The sight hit him like ice water.
The bathmat draped over its edge, still drying from Luka’s bath. The tarnished brass feet curved like talons against the tile floor, neglected over years in this old house.
Music filled his ears—lilting, stuttering notes played beneath a music box.
“Keep playing, kitten.”
Nick gripped the doorjamb, fingers digging into the wood as he fought against the memory. He tried the breathing technique—in through the nose, hold for five seconds, out through the mouth—but holding his breath only intensified the panic, trapping him morefirmlyin the past.
The pain in his arm flared, bright and vicious, as his heart rate spiked. The infection site throbbed in time with his pulse, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through his body. He was hyperaware of both hisrapidlydeteriorating mental state and the physical pain he’d been trying so hard to ignore.
“No,”Nick whispered, pressing his forehead against the cool wood.“Not now.”
His muscles screamed in protest as he positioned his hand over the ivory keys. The stump where his pinky had been ached, but it was his mutilated ring finger—only the nub beneath his second knuckle remaining after his fifth attempt to escape—that throbbed and bled onto the white keys through the bandage.
“I can’t,”Nick whispered, voice cracking.“Please, I’ve been playing for hours.”
Gianmarco’s fingers tightenedon his shoulder.“That sounded like refusal.”His voice remained conversational, almost disappointed.“And we were having such a lovely evening.”
Nick pushed away from the door, stumbling into the hallway. The walls seemed to breathe around him, expanding and contracting like a living thing. He needed somewhere small, somewhere safe. The room was too big, too exposed.
From his pocket, Gianmarco produced a small, ornate music box. Nick’s stomach dropped at the sight, bile rising in his throat.
“No,” he breathed.
Gianmarco wound the music box with deliberate slowness, the metallic clicking echoing through the penthouse. When the tinkling melody of Gymnopédie No. 1 began, he placed it on the piano.
“You have until the song ends,”Gianmarco explained, as if discussing dinner plans.“If you’re still playingperfectlywhen the music stops, we’ll rest for tonight.”
His knees wanted to buckle, to fold him into the submissive position that had been beaten into his muscles. Nick braced his hand against the wall, fighting the urge to kneel. The cool plaster beneath his palm felt real, anchoring him to the present.
“This is real,”he muttered.“The music isn’t real.”
When the music box wound down, Nick missed three notes.
Gianmarco sighed, disappointment coloring his features.“So close, kitten.”
