But last night…
I think it’s gone now.
Tears blur my vision as I lean closer, pressing my forehead gently against his shoulder so I don’t wake him. “I’m sorry, Jude,” I whisper into the darkness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
He doesn’t stir or react. His breathing never changes. I know I’m going to die soon. Alexei has hinted more than a few times about giving me to someone. And then he introduced us to Vlad...and I’ve been terrified ever since. Not to mention how Erik looks at me. And if for some reason, they don't sell me, I still don't think I want to live anymore after what I've done.
I lie there, listening to the rhythm of Jude’s heartbeat beneath my ear, memorizing it. Because some terrible, instinctive part of me knows I’m listening to something that probably won’t survive this place, either.
Chapter twenty-seven
JUDE GRAVES
I half expected Alexei to hurt me for killing that piece of shit who raped Adriana. But he didn’t. Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised.
I’m strapped to the chair, wrists bound, ankles locked, my body shaking so hard the restraints are rattling. My skin feels like it’s crawling off my bones, nervesscreamingfor something they aren’t getting. Morning dose denied. Again.
Erik stands off to the side with my kit. Rubber tourniquet, syringe, and vial. He’s ready, just waiting for permission. He’s shit at shooting up because my veins are blown to hell. He always fucking misses and digs. Doesn’t matter. Pain is part of the point, I suppose. These sessions are daily now.
I glance past Alexei and spot Adriana sitting against the far wall, knees pulled to her chest, chewing her nails down to nothing. Alexei hasn’t even looked at her. He’s barely acknowledged her since executing Nolan in front of us, and I think that’s what’s scaring the shit out of her.
Unfortunately, it tells me more about what he eventually plans to do with her. She, like the thin, frail girl he keeps prisoner here, is inventory. Someone he can trade and sell, without a care in the goddamn world. I wonder, distantly, if that’s what tonight’s event is really about.
“Alright,” Alexei says, finally stepping into my line of sight. He looks annoyed. “Someone is still poking around my defenses, little rockstar.” He crouches until we’re eye level. “Who the fuck would be doing that, hmm?”
I stare at him.
Fuck.
Ithasto be Rook. Which means Micah. Which means—
Goddammit.
“I don’t know, man,” I mutter.
Alexei straightens slowly, towering over me. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your little friends, would it?”
I snort despite myself. “No. Micah’s a drummer. Heather’s a fucking nurse. And—”
Stop.
Don’t say her name.
“And she’s a goddamn art therapist,” I finish. “No one’s a technical genius. They’re nothing.”
Alexei studies me. His eyes narrow, but he seems to drop it. Then—
CRACK.
His fist slams into my face.
My head snaps to the side, vision exploding into pure white light. Blood floods my mouth, and I taste copper. One of my teeth cut my lip.
“Paparazzi’s finally fucked off trying to find you,” he says calmly, like he didn’t just hit me. “Everyone assumes you’re a lost cause now. Drugged-out. Close to death. A burnt-out star that has fallen from grace. A fallen star, if you will.” He huffs a quiet laugh.
I clench my jaw and swallow blood.
He smiles faintly. “Anyway,” he says, straightening his cuffs. “Let’s get to work.”