Page 34 of These Shattered Memories

T he rope digs into my wrists as I pull, its coarse fibres tearing into raw skin.

The knot still won’t budge. My head pounds, and my thoughts are still fogged by whatever Kane injected into me.

I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep for hours—or maybe just minutes.

Time feels slippery and I can’t seem to grasp anything around me.

Cold slithers over my skin, reminding me of Jim and Irina’s home.

They always refused to turn on the heating, and my coat was never thick enough to keep me warm.

My teeth chatter uncontrollably. If I don’t get out of here soon, the cold might push my body into shock.

I can’t afford that. I can’t fall asleep again.

I can’t leave Rowan waiting, thinking I ran.

Rowan .

His face flashes before me, making my stomach knot. We were so close to something—

The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a crack. Anders storms in, her gun trained on my head. Behind her, a hulking man follows, his bulk filling the doorway.

“Get him up,” she snaps.

I freeze. This is it. She’s going to kill me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Where’s Kane?”

“Shut up,” she growls, not even sparing me a glance. Despite being out of it, I can tell she’s panicking. Her movements are jerky, and a deep frown sits on her face.

The man with her steps forward, pulling a knife from his belt.

Its blade gleams coldly in the dim light as he slices through the rope around my wrists.

My arms drop, and I barely suppress a cry at the pain flooding back into my blood-starved limbs.

Purple welts bloom on my skin, caked with dry blood where the fibres bit deep.

I sag in the chair, but the man grabs my collar and hauls me to my feet.

My legs buckle, but I manage to stay upright, swaying unsteadily.

The knife glints in his hand, too close to my face to ignore.

This is my only chance, I realise. My body may be sluggish, and he is larger than me, but I may still be faster than him. I have to be.

Before I can think twice, my hand lashes out, grabbing the knife from his hand. He hesitates—just a moment of confusion—but it’s enough. I plunge the blade into his side, slicing through fabric and flesh. He howls, the sound feral, and stumbles back, clutching the wound at his side.

“Stop!” Anders screams, her gun whipping toward me.

But the man doesn’t give me a chance to press the attack.

His meaty hand clamps around my throat, his fingers squeezing like a vice.

My lungs burn as he slams me against the wall.

Stars burst in my vision when he lands a fist in my stomach.

Pain blooms, radiating out until I feel like I’ll split apart.

I swing blindly, but my fist connects with air. He laughs, the sound guttural, and grabs my hair, shoving me to the floor. The taste of copper floods my mouth as blood drips from my split lip. The stale carpet scratches against my cheek, its fibres stiff with grime and old stains.

“Wrong move, Alex,” Anders says, her voice calm now, the click of her gun’s safety loud in the room.

“I’ve got this,” the man grunts, kneeling over me. His hands clamp down on my throat again, crushing my windpipe whilst his eyes burn with feral determination. He wants to kill me, and he might just do it.

“Don’t kill him!” she barks. “We still need him!”

Maybe he hears her, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, he doesn’t loosen his grip. The edges of my vision blur, darken. My hands claw at his arms, weak and useless. I don’t want to die, but the fight in me ebbs as the darkness spreads.

I survived Canning’s streets. I survived OCU training. I even survived Rowan and The Snake. Tears spill out of my eyes, down my cheeks and onto the man’s hands as he continues to squeeze, and Anders continues to scream.

I almost had happiness. I almost had him.

This can’t be it. It can’t be the end.

But it is.

***

The next part is a dream, or maybe it’s real.

I don’t know. The world blurs, sound fading into a muffled hum.

Somewhere, far away, a gunshot rips through the air, so loud I’m convinced the entirety of Senna hears it.

Something heavy slams into me—a dead weight that smells of sweat, greasy food and cheap aftershave.

I’m pinned beneath it, suffocating. Shouts erupt around me, commands barked in clipped tones.

Warmth spreads across my chest, sticky and metallic smelling. Blood. But whose? Another shot cracks, followed by a strangled cry for mercy. Then silence.

The weight is lifted, and I gasp weakly, lungs struggling to remember how to breathe. A familiar scent—spiced and clean—fills the air.

“Alex?” The voice is unmistakable, thick with fear. “Alex, it’s me. Can you hear me? Shit, Alex. You have to get up.”

Rowan .

He came.

He found me.

But I’m slipping too far, too fast. I try to open my eyes, to let him know I’m still here, but the darkness pulls harder than my desire to wake up.

“Alex!” His voice breaks on my name, desperate. “Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

I want to, but I can’t.