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I don’t open my eyes.If they think I’m still out, that’s leverage I’m not giving up yet.

There’s a sound to my left—leather shifting, breathing that isn’t mine.Close.

I shift my fingers slightly, testing sensation.I keep my breath even.Not because I’m calm.Because I’ve learned what panic costs, and I can’t afford that kind of debt right now.

Footsteps cross the room.Steady.Intentional.

Not a man in a hurry.

A man who knows exactly how long it takes to make someone afraid.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.Dry.Tacky.Whatever he used—it was clean, fast, absolute.No struggle.No warning.Just lights out.

He didn’t want me dead.He wanted me quiet.

That’s good.Not safe—just useful.Dead is harder to negotiate with.

I shift again, just enough to feel the blanket over my legs.Soft.Light.

Tucked too neatly.That’s the part that gets me.

This wasn’t rushed.This was well-planned.

I take in the sharp edges of the moment.Not the how.Not the why.Just the what.What I have.What I can use.

Because whoever brought me here—whoever drugged me, stripped me, restrained me—whoever thought I’d fold just because they made it look polite—doesn’t know the first thing about me.

In the corner, the chair shifts.Footsteps approach.

And then his voice, cool and unhurried: “Open your eyes.”

That voice.Like he’s used to being obeyed.Like even furniture might listen.

I can’t help but sigh.

Here we go again.

7

Vance

She doesn’t open her eyes.

I told her to.That should’ve been enough.

Maybe it’s the sedative.Maybe it’s defiance.Either way, it’s a problem.

I move closer, watching the way she lies there—breathing steady.Too steady.No panic.No fight.

It’s not what I’m used to.

Most women thrash.Scream.Fight as though survival’s still on the table.

She doesn’t.

She’s got nerve.I’ll give her that.

I rub the back of my neck.This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.I can improvise—but I appreciate knowing what comes next.And right now, I don’t.