Page 39

I t’s dark.

The kind of dark that presses against your eyelids even when they’re already closed.

My head hurts from where I banged it. Maybe from the chloroform, too.

My body aches, crammed into the trunk of a moving car.

The air is thick— musty and hot —and I can taste panic at the back of my throat.

My arms are numb.

My legs cramp with every bump in the road.

There’s nothing but the hum of the engine and the wild, uneven drum of my heartbeat.

No idea how long it’s been.

No phone.

No light.

No Balor.

Oh God.

Balor.

A sob claws at my throat, but I choke it back.

I pull off the hood that was half-assed shoved on my head.

I can’t cry. Not now. Not yet.

The car slows. Gravel crunches under tires. Then a hard stop.

A moment later, the trunk creaks open and a rush of cool, damp air floods in.

My lungs gasp greedily, and before I can scream, rough hands grab me, dragging me out.

Everything’s spinning.

I hit the ground, knees scraping concrete.

Then I’m hauled upright, stumbling into what smells like rot and mildew.

Somewhere damp. Abandoned.

Someplace no one would ever find me.

No, I refuse to go there.

The air is heavy with dust and something else— mold, decay, time.

Like this space hasn’t been lived in or used for years.

My head spins as I try to orient myself.

Peeling wallpaper.

Shattered windows.

Faint light filtering through warped slats.

Then I see him.

From the shadows, a man steps forward.

Stringy blond hair, red-rimmed eyes, a snarl curling his lips.

I blink hard, trying to place him.

I know him.

I know that face.

El Tigre’s manager.

“You recognize me, don’t you, Diablita ?” he asks, glaring at me with crazed eyes.

“Um. Yeah, you’re um, Daniel. No—David?”

I try to think, but it’s hard.

His last name is something. Something with an M.

And then he says it.

“Daniel Matheson!” he shouts like I’ve insulted him by forgetting.

“You little fucking tease!” His voice cracks, hoarse with fury. “You should have been mine!”

I take a step back, heart hammering against my ribs.

He follows.

“Don’t you know I’m the reason he wrote those songs for you? I convinced El Tigre you were it! The muse! So fucking worthy!”

He paces, frantic, one hand running through his hair, the other twitching at his side.

“But look at you now. Look at you!” He points a trembling finger, spit flying.

“You-You broke into my apartment?—”

“I left you gifts! Didn’t you like them? You were supposed to understand,” he bends down till he is eye level with me, then he screams. “FUCKING BITCH!”

I flinch.

This man is not right.

He’s crazy.

He starts pulling on his hair, pacing and mumbling.

“You married that fucking tattooed freak! That criminal! You chose him over me! Over us!”

“There is no us,” I whisper.

I want to scream.

But my mouth won’t open that far. And my throat has gone dry.

I’m frozen.

Trapped in a nightmare I never saw coming.

“No us? How can you say that when I’ve loved you for so long? When I did all this for you?” he asks.

“What are you talking about?”

But I barely finish the question when he takes the knife in his hand.

“You just don’t know how much I love you. How much I adore you. You don’t belong to him. I’ll show you. I’ll show you,” he says over and over like a song stuck on repeat.

He slices his shirt, ripping it open, and shoving it off.

His pants are next, and then he stands there proudly, baring himself to me.

Bile rises in my throat as I see the full horror of his man’s obsession with me.

Carved onto his skin are bloody scabs— no, not just scabs, those are words.

My name.

Or the bastardization of the nickname my dad gave me when I was little.

Diablita.

Carved into his skin. Over and over.

I feel nauseated.

“You fucking exhaust me, Diablita. But it’s okay. I forgive you. No one can love you like I do,” he says, nodding and creeping me the fuck out.

“Pretty soon, you’ll see. First, I’m gonna cut you. Put my name on you so the world knows you’re mine,” he threatens, and starts to walk towards me, knife held in his steady right hand.

For the first time since this all started, I realize— I might not make it out of this.

My breath catches. My lungs stop working.

The knife in his hand gleams under the single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.

It swings slightly—like a pendulum ticking down the seconds until the end.

I want to move.

To scream.

To fight.

But I can’t.

My body refuses to obey.

My heart beats like a war drum in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything but the sound of his footsteps scraping across the concrete floor.

He’s barefoot now.

I don’t know when he took off his shoes, but the quiet pat-pat of skin on stone makes my skin crawl.

“Please don’t,” I whisper, and it sounds like someone else.

Weak.

Small.

Not the daughter of Destiny and Marat Volkov.

Not the woman Balor Cruz kissed this morning with eyes full of promise and love.

Just me.

A terrified girl trapped in a body that won’t move.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice shaking now. “You were meant for me. I gave you songs. I gave you fame. I gave you everything!”

“You gave me nothing,” I rasp.

His expression shatters. For a second, I think he might cry.

Then he laughs.

Sharp. Insane. Desperate.

The knife flashes as he raises it, and I flinch, instinct finally kicking in as I scramble backward on the floor, the rough surface scraping my palms raw.

“I was going to save you,” he whispers. “But now? I have to mark you. Make you mine. They’ll see. Everyone will see.”

He lunges, his heavy body crushing me against the floor.

I feel the tip of the blade eat into my flesh, and then— I scream.