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6

NIGHTMARES BECOME REALITY

I wake up, and it takes me a while to open my eyes. The room is different yet familiar, my arms feel numb. I look at the cause of it and notice the skin color difference. My arms are tied to the metal bed frame post. Not mine.

I try to speak, but the cloth tied around my mouth muffles my voice. I choke out a noise, a desperate plea. The figure in the corner doesn’t move. I feel the evil but also sense a form of familiarity. Despite the darkness, something about his presence stands out to me.

The air is thick with the stench of burnt flesh and blood. It clings to my skin, coats my throat, making me gag. That’s when I see it—the blood splashed across the walls, the lump of charred remains. The sharp, acrid smell of urine burns my nose.

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. I’m sure… I’ll wake up.

The woman appears in the mirror on the other side of the room. Naked. Her engorged, veiny breasts hang heavily, unnatural, swollen with something that never came. The gash in her stomach gapes open, flesh jagged, as if something had been torn from inside her.

She presses a single finger to her lips. Shhh .

The man’s shadow moves closer and the glow of the dim lighting catches his face.

My heart sinks.

I know him.

And the overwhelming fear consumes me.

His hand moves over my legs, spreading them further apart.

"Stop." I try to scream, but it comes out as a garbled, strangled noise against the cloth. He hears it. He doesn’t care. His head rests on the swell of my stomach. His breath warm, heavy, and wrong.

My eyes dart to the mirror.

The woman is gone.

No—she’s beside me now.

Kneeling. Watching.

Her hands—ice-cold, clawing, unrelenting—force my face forward.

Look .

His lips press against my stomach. He coos. Murmurs words I can’t make out.

Soft. Possessive. Final.

My body moves on its own, like muscle memory from another life. I start wiggling my ankle, pressing the rope against the jagged edge of the bed frame, sawing it over and over. My arms burn from tugging against the restraints. The stink of booze, sweat, something rotten rolls off him as he hovers over me, his gaze fevered, starved. From behind him, his hand moves. A flash of silver as he show me his weapon. The knife glints under the weak light.

No .

I thrash. My breath is frantic and desperate.

"Shhh… shhh…" His voice slithers down my spine, making my stomach turn. I sob, the sound swallowed by the cloth.

"Mine," he seethes before moving lower between my legs. His mouth brushes my skin. I want to close my legs, kick him, scream, fight?—

And suddenly, my hand is free. The fabric around my ankle snaps under the strain. The other is almost undone, held together by threads and friction. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s her. But my hand wraps around the glass flower vase beside the bed. And in one quick moment, before he can register what happens?—

I swing.

BAM.

I wake up choking on air. My stomach tightens, a fist clenching deep inside me, crushing me from the inside out. For a second, I don’t know where I am. The sheets beneath me are too soft. The air is too warm. The smell of blood is gone. The cloth is gone.

But the terror remains.

All I can hear is my heart pounding in my head. Each beat feels too loud, too fast. I struggle to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps. The warmth of Rey radiates beside me, his presence like a weight pressing down on me. I close my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow.

In and out.

Calm down, Serena.

Slowly, I shift my gaze, looking at him from the corner of my eye. He’s still asleep. His face is peaceful. Unbothered. Then, suddenly, his alarm blares. I squeeze my eyes shut as he groans, shifting beside me. The bed moves with his weight as he reaches to turn it off. My stomach clenches again, sharp and merciless, and I press a hand to my belly.

I keep my breathing even, hoping he doesn’t notice I’m awake.

The bed shifts again. A shuffle of movement. The bathroom door creaks open. The sound of water running. My stomach relaxes, the tightness loosening, but the ache lingers. Then Rey steps out of the bathroom.

More scratches.

My stomach turns.

"Mi Reina, good morning." His voice is warm as he walks over to my side of the bed, his hand running gently over the swell of my stomach. "How are you feeling?"

I groan, but his eyes are already scanning my face. The worry in them makes my skin prickle. My face no longer burns, but I lift my hand, expecting to feel the scratches from the night before. Then Rey speaks again, and his words hit me like a freight train.

"The scratches are healing nicely. I had to sedate you for a day. I guess from the exhaustion, you don’t remember. But when I came home that night, I found you asleep in the bathroom, throw-up all over you, scratches all over your face."

I shake my head.

No .

No, that’s not right.

But Rey just nods, like it’s already been decided.

"It is. You’re not well, baby. I think we should consider letting your mom come visit. I’m worried." His voice lowers, almost gentle, his eyes shifting down to where his hand rests on my stomach.

My stomach twists, nausea creeping up my throat.

This isn’t right.

Josh.

Josh was with me.

I remember.

I part my lips, but the words never leave my mouth.

"I need to go out for a bit. I have to go to the University for some paperwork. Do you think you’ll be okay?"

I blink. But before I can reply he’s already moving, already pulling away. Like I haven’t been staring at him, trying to understand what’s real.

"I asked Josh to come by and keep an eye on you. I’d rather you not be alone." He takes a deep breath. "I asked him last night."

I nod numbly.

Josh.

Last night.

The pieces aren’t fitting together. Rey walks toward the closet, rummaging through his things. His voice is casual, too light. "Did you know he lives really far back? Almost near the water. Kind of weird. I’ve been looking at the house plans, and the small cabin wasn’t in the original plans, which makes me curious."

I stand by the doorframe, watching as the light illuminates his bare skin. Scratches. More of them. My stomach clenches again.

I don’t ask.

At this point, he isn’t hiding it.

I hear his phone ring from behind me, causing him to stop and look over his shoulder.

"Want me to get it?" I ask, using my thumb to point behind me.

He grabs a pair of blue jeans before walking past me and straight to the nightstand. Rey picks up the phone, placing it to his ear, and without a word, he steps into the hallway. His footsteps fade into the distance. Then—a whisper. Low. Controlled. Like a secret.

I strain to listen, but the words slip through my grasp, just out of reach.

Who the hell is he talking to?

My hands shake as they move toward my center, hesitant, unsure. Then—a kick. Strong. Certain. A shock of emotion punches through my chest. Something sharp. Something primal.

Mine.

The urge to protect is so overwhelming I nearly gasp aloud. Then the pain returns, sudden and unforgiving. My stomach tightens again, a fist clenching deep inside me. I clutch the white wooden door trim, my nails digging into the frame as I ride the wave of pain. A sharp contraction rips through me, tightening like a vice. I bite my lip, breathing through my nose. Calm. Controlled.

Then—Rey’s voice. "Serena, is everything okay?"

I inhale slowly, forcing my body to relax. By the time I turn around, I’m smiling.

"Yes, all fine," I say lightly, moving away from the door and toward the bed. Each step is measured, careful to mask any discomfort. "I think I'll sleep some more." I fake a yawn. "So sleepy."

"Okay, you do that," Rey murmurs, his tone warm but watchful. Always watching.

"You should be resting as much as you can. I'll let Josh know you’re sleeping but to keep an eye out." He walks toward me, hands gentle as he helps me slide under the blankets, tucking me in with care. His fingers brush against my hair, but there is no warmth behind them. "I'm probably going to be late, but not too late," he says before he presses one against my forehead. Soft. Distant. Detached. "Now rest."

"Okay," I whisper, curling into the covers, my body heavy against the mattress. I don’t bother to see him off. Because sleeping is better than seeing. Better than knowing. Better than feeling the truth press against my ribs, waiting to break me apart.