Page 39 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

LUCA

Nightmares don't end when you wake up. Not in this place. Not for me.

The haze of drugs is lifting slowly, the familiar cottonmouth and dull headache my only companions as consciousness returns.

My muscles feel like lead weights beneath the thin sheet covering my body.

I've grown accustomed to this routine—the injections, the foggy aftermath, the gradual return to a reality that's arguably worse than the drug-induced oblivion.

I blink at the ceiling, pristine white like everything else in this sterile hell. My cell. My prison. Four walls, a bed bolted to the floor, a toilet without privacy, and a constant rotation of armed guards. Home sweet fucking home.

A sound shatters the silence. The mechanical whir of the door next to mine sliding open. My senses sharpen instantly, years of Rossi training kicking in despite the chemical fog still clinging to my brain. I hold still, controlling my breathing as I listen.

A thud. Heavy, like deadweight hitting the floor.

There are voices outside—two guards, maybe three. Their words are indistinct through the walls, but their tone is casual, bored even. Just another day at work for them. Just another body to process.

“...check on Rossi while we're here?” one asks, voice clearer now.

“Nah, he's still under. Doc said the new dosage would keep him out till morning.”

Footsteps retreat down the corridor, followed by the heavy clank of the security door. Silence returns, but something has shifted in the air. A tension that wasn't there before.

The new arrival in the next cell. Another captive for The Collector's twisted menagerie.

I strain my ears, listening for any sign of life from the other side of the wall. Nothing at first, then, a soft moan. The sound twists something in my chest, a feeling I thought they'd drugged out of me months ago. Empathy.

“Hey,” I press my lips close to the vent in the wall by my bed. “Can you hear me?”

Silence answers. I wait, counting my heartbeats, wondering if the drugs have finally cracked my mind completely. Then, another moan, louder this time followed by a rustling sound, like someone struggling to move.

“Easy. The drugs take a while to wear off. Don't fight it.”

I've become an expert on their chemical cocktails, learned to endure the surges rather than fight them. Survival lessons no one should ever have to master.

“Where?” A hoarse voice rasps from the other side.

I press my ear closer, desperate for human contact that isn't a guard or one of the technicians who treat me like a lab specimen.

“Where...where am I?”

“Hell,” I answer simply. “Or the closest thing to it on earth.”

My fingers trail along the smooth surface of the wall next to me, searching for weaknesses I know aren't there. I've examined every inch of this cell hundreds of times.

“How long...how long have you been here?”

“Not sure anymore. Months? Years? They keep me sedated most of the time.”

The silence stretches between us, broken only by labored breathing from the other side. He's hurt, I realize. Or coming down from the same drugs they pump into me.

A sharp intake of breath from the other side. Then silence so complete I wonder if he's passed out.

“You there?”

“Yeah. I'm here.”

Something in his tone makes me push myself up on my elbows despite the protest of my muscles. There's a familiarity there, buried beneath the pain and disorientation.

“You got a name?” I ask, pressing closer to the vent. Connection is currency here, more valuable than food or water.

A long pause follows. "Does it matter?"

“Probably not,” I admit, settling back against my pillow. “But it's been a while since I've talked to anyone who isn't trying to stick a needle in me or milk me dry.”

A sound comes through the vent, something between a cough and a bitter laugh. “Fair enough.”

“So what'd they get you for?” I ask, falling into small talk that feels oddly appropriate. “What makes you valuable to The Collector?”

Another stretch of silence, this one heavier than before. I'm about to think he's passed out when his voice drifts through again. “A bargaining chip, I’m guessing.”

“A bargaining chip,” I echo, letting the words settle between us. “For what?”

His breathing has a rhythm to it now, measured, controlled. The kind of breathing you learn when pain is a constant companion and you're trying not to show it.

“Your sister.”

I jolt upright, ignoring the wave of nausea that rolls through me. “What do you know about my sister?” My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I can barely hear over the rushing in my ears.

No answer comes from the other side of the wall.

“Hey!” I slam my palm against the cold concrete, pain shooting up my arm. “Answer me, goddammit! What do you know about Vesper?”

Still nothing. Panic claws up my throat as I press my ear against the vent again, straining to hear even the faintest sound of breathing.

“Please,” I plea, desperation cracking my voice. “Please, if you know something, anything, about my sister...”

I slide to the floor, pressing my entire body against the wall as if I could somehow phase through it by sheer force of will.

The mention of Vesper has shattered what little composure I've managed to maintain in this place.

For months, I've survived on nothing but hatred for my father and uncle, and the desperate hope that Vesper somehow escaped the fate they planned for her.

“Come on,” I plead, rapping my knuckles against the vent. “Don't do this. Talk to me.”

A soft groan filters through the vent, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. The drugs. I recognize the pattern, the sudden silence, the nausea, the temporary inability to maintain consciousness. Whoever is on the other side is losing the battle against the sedatives.

“She's coming. Your sister...is coming for you.”

My breath catches in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. “How do you know that? Who are you?”

Only silence answers in return. The tiny spark of hope flickers in my chest. “Come back. Please come back.”

I won't give up. Not now. Not when there's finally something to hold onto besides hatred.