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CHAPTER EIGHT

Evangeline

Keys jingle outside the door, and every muscle seizes up, terror clawing its way back up my throat. My wrists burn against the cuffs with every move I make.

What does he want?

Is he bringing more water? Will I have another bathroom break while he stands there watching, and I try to pretend I’m not dying inside?

I can’t do it again. I can’t bear to have him watching, standing there while I ? —

The lock clicks, and all the air leaves my lungs in a strangled whimper. I press back against the radiator, the metal biting deeper into my wrists. It hurts, but at least it means I’m still alive. I don’t know how much longer that’s going to be the case. Not with the gun-wielding psychopath who has me trapped.

The door swings open, and my stomach heaves, threatening to bring up the water he forced me to drink hours ago. He steps inside. My throat constricts, making breathing impossible, and black spots dance at the edge of my vision.

He pauses in the doorway for a second, looking at me. I can’t stop myself from shrinking back, trying to make myself smaller. Something crosses his face, gone too fast for me to recognize it. Then he moves, coming closer, long strides eating up the space between us.

I shake my head.

He crouches in front of me. Too close . The scent of coffee, and something distinctly male fills my lungs. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, turning him into something from a nightmare.

My nightmare.

“Listen carefully.” His voice is low, intense. “I believe you. You’re not the enemy. And I’m going to make this right.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. Not since I walked into this apartment, ready to see what Knight had found and hopefully find my brother. Not since the first time this psychopath pressed a gun against my head.

He leans forward, reaching out with one hand, and I try to twist away.

“Keep still.” His voice is clipped.

He ignores my struggles, and uses one hand on my shoulder to push me forward.

There’s a soft click, then my right hand is free. A scream tears from my throat as my arm straightens. White-hot agony rips through muscles locked in position for what seems like forever. My shoulder feels like it’s being torn apart, tendons stretched to breaking. I can’t straighten my fingers, can’t control the violent tremors wracking my arm. Every beat of my heart sends fresh waves of fire through nerves waking up after hours of numbness.

When the second cuff releases, I crash sideways into the radiator, unable to coordinate any movement. Bile burns the back of my throat, my muscles spasm and lock, refusing to obey any command. I need to get away from him, but I can’t even lift my hands, can’t make my arms do anything except shake and burn.

"Easy." He reaches for me.

Panic surges through me, and I scramble backward, my useless arms pressed against my chest. Each movement sends fresh waves of agony through my shoulders. Every inch feels like I’m being stabbed with hot pokers.

“Don’t touch me!” My shriek echoes off the walls.

Every muscle screams as I try to push myself up the wall, but my legs won’t hold me. They’re too numb, too weak from sitting in one position for so long. Pins and needles stab through my feet, my calves, my thighs.

“Your wrists need looking at. The handcuffs have cut them.” There’s nothing in his voice. No remorse for what he’s done to me, no regret.

“I need you to stay away from me.” My voice breaks.

He stands, rising to what looks like a huge height from my position on the floor, blocking the doorway. Blocking my escape. My skin feels too tight, sweat breaking out across my forehead, despite the chill in the air. The room tilts sideways.

“Move.” I try to sound strong, determined, but it comes out desperate. “Let me go.”

“Not until?—”

Something inside me snaps.

I lurch to my feet, and my palm cracks across his face before I can stop myself. The impact jolts up my arm, but I don’t care. This pain feels good . Hours of terror, helplessness, and humiliation explode out of me in a rush of animal fury that gives me the power to ignore the agony I’m in.

I hit him again. Again . My arms scream in protest, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Each blow is weaker than the last, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except making him hurt. Making him feel just a fraction of what he’s done to me. My shoulders burn. My hands are numb. But I keep swinging.

“You bastard!” Another hit. The satisfaction of it ripples through abused muscles. “You absolute fucking bastard !”

His body tenses under my hands, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me. He just stands there while I beat uselessly against his chest. Until my arms drop like lead weights. Until the rage burns out, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion, a heaving chest, and tremors I can't control.

My legs give out. His arms catch me before I hit the floor, and I sob—harsh, ugly sounds that tear through my chest. I should fight. I should pull away. I should do anything except sag against him while he holds me up.

But I can’t.

I cry until my throat feels like sandpaper, until my ribs ache with each breath, until my face is raw from pressing against his shirt. Sobs wrack my body, tearing through abused muscles.

I hate that I need his support to stay upright. Hate that I’m touching him at all. Hate that the same hands that cuffed me to a radiator are now keeping me from collapsing.

“I need to move you.” His voice is flat. “You need food and your wrists need medical attention.”

Fresh terror rises, clogging my throat.

Move me where?

Now the burst of adrenaline has left me, my legs are deadweight, useless after being curled under me for so long. He’ll have to carry me. Touch me. Hold me closer against him. My skin crawls at the thought of his hands on me again after everything he’s done.

“No!” I try to push away from him. “Where’s Knight? What did you do to him?”

“I told you. I’m Knight.”

A desperate laugh bubbles up. “Knight wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t—” I shake my head. “He helped me. He understood about Michael. About everything.” I hate how weak I sound.

“Someone used my name to manipulate you.”

“Liar.” The word comes out as a sob.

I don’t believe him. The real Knight sent me cat memes, talked me through panic attacks when I couldn’t sleep, made me laugh, sent me takeout and chocolates. This man pointed a gun to my head, handcuffed me to a radiator, and watched me use the bathroom like I was something less than human.

He moves, and I flinch, but there’s nowhere to go, no way to fight as he stoops and lifts me. A whimper escapes my lips at the contact, at being so completely at his mercy.

What is he going to do with me?

I’m alone with him. Weak, helpless. Every horrible story about women who disappear, every true crime documentary I’ve ever watched, floods my mind.

Pain shoots through my shoulders as he swings me up into his arms. Each step jostles abused muscles, sending fresh sparks of agony through my arms.

“Please, no. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t?—”

He sets me down on something soft. A couch. Everything hurts. I try to curl away from him, but my body won’t cooperate. My muscles are shaking so badly I can barely sit upright.

“Please …”

He steps back. “You need something to eat. Something bland. Rice, maybe.”

Rice ? Like this is normal ? Like he didn’t just spend god knows how long terrorizing me? Like I’m not trapped here with a man who stripped away every shred of dignity I had.

“Why are you doing this?” Tears blur my vision, fear and anger mixing together. “Where’s Knight?”

He moves away, speaking into his phone, but I can’t hear the words over the sound of my heart in my ears.

What happens when the food arrives? Is he really ordering food, or is he bringing other people here? What is he going to do to me?