Page 49 of Peripheral Vision (Tethered in Darkness Duet #1)

Chapter

Thirty-One

DYLAN

M y shoulder burns in agony as I attempt to change out of the scrappy dress I was required to wear to my unc—Connor’s office.

He already made it clear that we weren’t family.

And after what he did to me… the ache between my thighs screams at me for considering such a thing.

My eyes sting with unshed tears, afraid to look down at the evidence that I can feel between my thighs.

A sob escapes my lips as I finally pull the dress over my head.

Blood trickles down my back from where I was stabbed, the crusted over wound reopening from the movement.

I close my eyes to stop the tears from falling or prevent myself from passing out, I’m unsure. I just want the world blocked out.

But images replay in my mind, and I still feel his touch, his rough hands, the way his cold and dead eyes looked at me as he took and took and took from me.

The sound of his voice ricochets in my head, repeating all of the horrible things he said he’s going to continue to do to me.

The room seems to close in around me, and I search for purchase on a nearby surface, but stumble and fall to the ground instead.

The pain is overwhelming, physically and emotionally, as I fight not to break.

But it’s no use. Curling into a fetal position, I allow a wave of nausea to roll over me and I begin retching onto the floor around me, my stomach emptying out the minimal contents it contained.

The first tear falls and before I can prevent it, it mixes in with the blood and the vomit.

I lay there, trembling, the cold floor biting my skin as my body convulses in broken sobs.

The room smells of copper and bile, the weight of the air pressing down on me like an iron shroud.

My fingers claw at the ground, desperate for something solid to anchor me, but they only find purchase in the excrement of my body.

The walls seem to whisper, the echoes of his voice weaving with the torment of my thoughts.

You’re never leaving here, unless it’s in a body bag.

That’s what he had said as he was in my body, taking something I could never get back.

I knew that of course. He said I couldn’t after I’d seen his face.

But a body bag is better than any time spent in this cage.

I still have no idea how long I’ve really been gone, nobody had bothered to disclose that, even when I asked.

I don’t know where I am. My stomach growls in protest, but hunger is the least of my concerns.

The real battle is against the terror clawing at my mind, the despair trying to smother the resolve I’ve held onto for so long.

What would Dad think? A voice in the back of my mind whispers.

And almost as if he was answering me, I hear it…

“Get up, kiddo.” It’s his voice in my head—not the monster’s, but Dad’s.

Steady, firm, but kind. The way he always was when I needed him most. “You’ve been through so much, you can get through this, too” he’d say, his words careful, like he knew how fragile I felt sometimes.

He never tried to tell me it wasn’t hard or pretended like things were okay when they weren’t.

He just stayed there with me, steady and patient until I was ready.

I close my eyes as the tears slow, letting the memory of him fill the space where the fear tries to creep in.

“Doesn’t matter how long it takes” he’d told me once.

“You don’t have to win today. Just keep trying. That’s enough.”

A part of me wants to ask him how that could possibly be enough right now, wants to ask how much more of myself I have to give away until it’s over—until Fletcher rescues me or I’m another dead body in the ground.

But I know if Dad were here, he’d remind me that enough isn’t always what you think it is.

“You’re not alone” he’d whisper now, and the thought steadies me just a little. “You’re never alone, not really.”

I shift, wincing at the bite of pain that shoots through my body as I test my weight on my good arm, then the injured one due to my shoulder.

My whole body protests, aching and trembling, but I manage to push myself upright.

My breathing is shallow, my vision swimming, but I’m sitting now, and that feels like something.

“See?” Dad’s voice drifts through my mind again, warm and careful, like he’s afraid to push too hard.

“One step at a time, that’s all it takes.

” I glance at the dresser, trying to find the motivation to get dressed in whatever is in there, if anything.

And I let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe Dad’s right.

Maybe I can do this. But the thought is gone by the next morning.

The metallic clink of the lock turning jolts me awake.

I blink rapidly, my vision adjusting to the dim orange light spilling through the cracked doorway.

For a brief second I forget where I am, until searing hot torment graces my back.

The room no longer smells like blood and bile, and I sit up to notice that the mess I had created on the floor was cleaned up, and my shoulder was bandaged as well.

Had they come in here after I fell asleep?

Why didn’t I wake up? Unless… they drugged me again.

“Get up.” A gruff voice cuts through the silence, one I recognize as one of the enforcers from yesterday.

But I don’t move, despite the way my body is suddenly protesting it.

“You need to shower.” The hell I did, I would rather sit in my own filth for days then give them the satisfaction of anything else.

And if it meant they wouldn’t touch me… “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he warns, his voice tinged with irritation rather than malice.

I ignore him, not even giving him my voice.

He walks into the room, stopping just out of arm’s reach, folding his arms across his broad chest. “You can act like a child all you want, but you’re going to do as you’re told whether you want to or not. You stink like a corpse, and that’s going to be a problem.”

“For you, maybe,” I shoot back, though my voice cracks on the last word. Whatever they’d dosed me with hadn’t fully worn off.

His jaw tightens. “Suit yourself. Just remember your choices impact whether you get rewarded or punished.” He turns sharply on his heel, stepping toward the door.

For a split second, despite the harrowing nature of his words, relief washes over me—until he reappears with another figure.

They walk back toward me, and I scramble backward, but they advance quicker than I expect, and hands clamp around my arms.

“No! Get off of me!” I scream, twisting and thrashing, reopening the stitches on my shoulder. But they lift me up as if I weigh nothing. My legs kick out wildly, even though they don’t make purchase with anything.

“You can walk, or we can carry you. Either way you’re getting that shower, even if it means we have to hose you down and treat you as the animal you’re behaving like.

” This time it’s the other enforcer who speaks as they drag me along.

I try to focus on anything but the growing knot of dread in my stomach.

Because I know what awaits me at the end of this.

They spoke of rewards and punishments, but are they really different, or are the rewards just neatly wrapped nightmares?

We turn a corner, and the sound of rushing water hits my ears as we go back to the same showers I was in yesterday.

One of the pipes is hissing with steam as they shove me toward the running water, crossing their arms as they stand there watching me.

I turn my back to them, my hands trembling as I remove the stained and torn fabric that hangs from my body, as well as the bandage.

Every movement feels like a betrayal to myself, but I refuse to let them see my tears.

When I am down to nothing, I stand there, exposed and vulnerable once again, my skin prickling under the weight of their stares.

“Scrub,” one of them orders, tossing a bar of soap onto the floor near me.

As badly as I want to resist, to refuse, to scream and fight…

I want to wash away the remnants of yesterday just as badly.

So I do. When I’m done, they hand me a towel, and this time I don’t fight as we walk back to my room, I don’t fight as they rebandage my shoulder, and I don’t fight as they redirect me to Connor’s office once more.

Another outfit is waiting for me, another choice that I don’t get to make—this time it’s skin tight and strapless.

If anything, it’s a little longer than the one yesterday.

One of the enforcers walks into the office and I wait with the other for several minutes before he returns, stepping to the side to gesture me inside as if he’s polite.

They close the door behind me, and I remain staring at my bare feet on the floor, feeling Connor’s heavy stare on me.

“I heard you caused them quite a bit of trouble this morning…” I don’t answer at first, instead standing there motionless because I have nothing to say to him.

But his voice breaks through the quiet, a note of irritation in his voice at my lack of obedience.

“Well?” he prompts again, the sound of his chair scraping along the floor filling the air. “Do you want to explain yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper, my voice raw, betraying any hint of defiance I wanted to convey. “I’m not your fucking puppet.”