Page 21 of Knot Shattered
“Probably for the wrong reasons,” Salem muttered, but the corner of his mouth curved up as he said it.
The booth filled again with warm, easy laughter like we had all the time in the world to tell each other everything. But like anything good in my life, the bubble of happiness bursts.
My phone chimes from my purse. I reach inside, digging for it while trying to arm wrestle Haze out of the way. I finally got it out and unlocked my screen. The message that pops up makes my numb fingers drop it. My phone clatters on the table, getting their attention. I can hear them calling my name, but my head swims, and suddenly I’m back in that basement.
It starts with the cold.Not the kind that prickles against your skin like winter air. No, this is worse.This cold seeps in.Crawls beneath your flesh, coils around your ribs, burrows into your lungs like rot.It’s heavy and relentless, like the weight of the world pressing down from the inside out.
The floor beneath me is wet.Concrete—cracked, uneven, stained with things I don’t want to name.I can feel it soaking into my skin, the chill of it leeching what little warmth I have left.My knees are bruised raw, folded awkwardly beneath me,muscles twitching with every shallow breath.Bare skin against stone.
I can’t even remember the last time I stood up.The chains bite into my wrists—thick, rusted metal bolted to the wall above my head.Every shift sends sharp, electric pain racing down my arms.I tried to fight them once.Yanked, pulled, screamed until my shoulders screamed louder and my wrists tore open.
All it bought me was blood.Blood and laughter.Now I hang limp, slumped forward, head too heavy to lift.The weight of my own body feels foreign.
Wrong.
Like, I’m not even real anymore.Just some broken thing left to rot in the dark.Footsteps pound against the stairs—heavy, purposeful.I don’t look up.I don’t need to.I know that rhythm now.I know what comes after it.
The overhead bulb buzzes, stuttering in its socket, casting sickly yellow light across the room.The shadows stretch long and jagged across the walls, across him.The one with the eyes too close together.The smile that never reaches them.I don’t know his name.
“Aw, come on now, pet,” he croons, crouching low before me, his breath a nauseating mix of stale coffee and cheap whiskey.His voice slithers into my ears, makes my skin crawl.“You were so sweet yesterday. Don’t tell me you’re already tired of our little game.”
I flinch instinctively as his hand reaches for me.The chains clatter against the wall, metal screaming as I try, too weakly, to pull away.I don’t get far.His fingers trail slowly down my cheek.The touch is light, almost tender.It makesmy stomach twist violently.Makes bile rise in the back of my throat.
His thumb presses against my lips, hard, bruising, like he owns me.
“You’re real pretty when you cry,” he whispers, voice thick with mock affection.
I turn my head away, clenching my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I won’t scream.I won’t beg.Not anymore.I’m done giving him the satisfaction.He laughs.It’s low, ugly, full of the kind of glee that comes from knowing no one’s coming to stop you.Like I’m a joke he keeps finding funnier every day.“Bet you thought they were different, huh?” he says, voice turning sharp, slicing into me with a casual cruelty.
“Those alphas. The ones who took you out. Bought you flowers. Made you feel special.”Shame burns under my skin, worse than any bruise, any cut.I squeeze my eyes shut, willing him to disappear.Willing myself to disappear.“You sent your little bodyguard home all sweet, didn’t you?”
His breath ghosts across my ear, cold and mean.“Poor bastard. If he knew what we were doing to his pretty little girl...”He trails off with a chuckle that turns my stomach.The chains rattle again when I jerk involuntarily.Pain spikes through my shoulders, white-hot and blinding.I’m shaking now, but it’s weak, useless.I’m too empty to even cry.
He leans closer, his voice dropping lower, colder.“You belong to us now, peaches.”I don’t answer.I don’t move.I don’t even breathe.He wraps a hand around my throat, not squeezing, not choking—just holding.
A reminder.
A leash.
A promise.
“You’re not gonna be rescued,” he whispers, almost lovingly.“No one’s coming for you.Not for a broken little thing like you.”The words hit harder than fists.They crawl under my skin, wrap around my heart, and squeeze until I think it might shatter.
My chest heaves once.
Twice.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, a mockery of tenderness, a brand of ownership—and the smell of him burns into my senses.Whiskey. Sweat. Violence.“Sweet dreams, pet,” he says, the words slicing through me like blades.Then he’s gone, footsteps retreating, and the light dies with him.Darkness swallows me whole.
Heavy, endless, absolute.
I believe him.
No one’s coming.
