I pitched forward, barely catching myself on the door handle. My fingers curled around it on instinct. I twisted—
It clicked.
Unlocked.
A small, stupid mercy.
I sagged against the open door, breath shuddering, tears finally burning at the backs of my eyes—not from fear now, but from the sheer effort of still being alive.
I half-fell, half-crawled into the backseat, my body moving on instinct alone, muscles obeying out of stubborn habit rather than strength.
My fingers barely managed to hook the edge of the door before gravity pulled me sideways. I dragged it shut with a weak, scraping motion, the sound of the latch clicking into place echoing far too loudly in the small, enclosed space.
The leather was cold against my overheated skin—slick, too, as blood immediately began to soak into the upholstery beneath me. Dark blooms spread outward, staining the pale seat in uneven shapes.
I curled onto my side, knees drawing in toward my chest, trying to keep pressure on the wound, but my arm shook so violently I could barely hold it there.
The slash beneath my breast wept steadily, warm and relentless, a thin trickle joining the larger gash higher up.
The pain had changed—no longer sharp enough to scream over, but deeper, heavier. A dull, thunderous roar that filled my skull and drowned out thought.
Every pulse of my heart felt too strong, too insistent, as if my body was trying to force the blood out faster.
God, please.
The words barely formed in my mind, too exhausted to become prayer.
Please let the owner of this car be a savior—anything but another predator.
I was still deep in Albanian territory. I knew that much.
Not far enough from the caves, from the men who owned roads and silence and graves. Anyone could find me here. Anyone could open this door and decide I was worth dragging back—or finishing off where I lay.
My eyelids grew impossibly heavy, like weights pressing down from the inside.
I forced them open again and again, teeth grinding as I fought the pull of unconsciousness.
Sleep felt dangerous. Like surrender.
The other women drifted through my thoughts, faces blurred but familiar. Ana. Sofia. Christina. Simona. Carina. They had scattered into the night like frightened birds, barefoot and bleeding and terrified—but alive. I clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra.
They’re running. They’re hiding. They’re free.
I prayed they’d found shelter. A farmhouse. A border crossing. A stranger who didn’t ask questions.
I imagined them surviving out of spite if nothing else—living just to deny the men who had owned them the satisfaction of their bodies breaking.
And then there was Bianca.
The memory hit hard and sudden, knocking the breath from me.
Pinned against the shed wall. The Kompania brother’s hand wrapped around her throat, fingers digging in as if he’d done it a thousand times before.
Her eyes hadn’t widened. She hadn’t struggled. There had been no panic—just a flat, empty resignation, as though hope had been beaten out of her long ago.
Ricci Ferrari’s stolen bride.
Passed from one monster to the next until she’d ended up in that cave, traded and discarded like spoiled meat.