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Stay.
Answer their questions.
Maybe then, they’ll let me go.
My fingers twitch, itching for an escape I’m not taking. Not yet, anyway, but the urge to flee thrums through my veins, a constant reminder that I’m way out of my comfort zone.
As I follow Jenny into the living room, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into another kind of trap. One with softer walls but a cage, nonetheless.
“Hey.” Blaze’s voice cuts through my rising panic. He crouches in front of me, his head tilted slightly. “No one’s going to hurt you. We just need to understand what happened.”
I want to believe him—God, how I want to—but trust is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford.
“Whatever.” I sink into an overstuffed armchair. The cushions envelop me in a way that’s almost too soft, too comfortable.
I shift to perch on the edge, telling myself I need to be ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, but the luxury of the chair tugs at me, coaxing me deeper into the softness despite my instinct to stay alert.
Every muscle in my body aches, a constant reminder of Bruiser’s fists and boots. My ribs throb with each breath. All I want is to get back to my tiny apartment, strip out of these filthy clothes, and wash away the stench of fear and captivity in my rusty sink.
I long for the familiar lumps of my sofa and the comforting scents of my handmade candles—lavender for peace, cinnamon for warmth, eucalyptus for clarity. God, what I wouldn’t give to be standing in front of my hotplate right now, carefully melting wax and infusing it with fragrant oils.
The act of creation, of turning simple ingredients into something beautiful and soothing, has always been my escape. In those moments, stirring gently and watching the wax take shape, I almost believe in better days ahead.
But now, surrounded by watchful eyes, those dreams feel further away than ever. I’m exhausted, in pain, and completely out of my element.
Instead, I force myself to stay put, my body tense and ready for whatever comes next. But as I shift in the plush chair, I’m acutely aware of the threadbare fabric of my clothes scratching against my skin. The worn cotton, frayed at the edges and stained with God-knows-what, feels like a siren broadcasting my poverty to everyone in the room.
It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
After everything I’ve been through—the kidnapping, the beatings, the terror—it’s my ratty clothes that make me feel truly exposed.
Aria’s designer outfit, even rumpled, whispers elegance and power, while the team’s high-tech gear speaks of capability and precision.
Meanwhile, my thrift store rejects stand out, screaming “poor” and “unworthy” louder than any words ever could.
I resist the urge to pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, knowing it’ll only make things worse. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, as much to hide the worst of the wear as to find some semblance of comfort.
It’s stupid to care about this now, with everything else going on, but I can’t help it. My shabby clothes are a physical manifestation of the gulf between me and everyone else in this room. A reminder that no matter what happens next, I’ll always be the outsider, the street rat trying to blend in with real people.
Their questions start gently at first:
What did we see?
What did we hear?
Did we recognize anyone?
Love that last one.
With each gentle probe, I shut down a little bit more. My responses are vague and noncommittal.
“I don’t know”becomes my mantra, even as memories of Bruiser’s words about moving us and an auction flash through my mind. I push them away, burying them deep.
The less I say, the safer I am.
That’s always been the rule.
“The men,” Jenny presses. “Can you describe them?”