Page 8 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Elena

I t’s a cloudy afternoon when I get back from Breckenridge. I've been sitting in the truck, staring at the porch of my temporary home for at least ten minutes. The engine is off, but I can’t bring myself to move.

Things between Luis and me have been awkward.

Most of it’s my fault. He’s been giving me space.

No jokes that could be misread, no lingering glances or unnecessary touches.

Just quiet kindness and a little small talk.

It hasn’t exactly made it easier to figure out what—if anything—he’s feeling toward me.

Maybe I’ve just built a narrative in my head that doesn’t exist.

Still, the distance has helped a little. Enough for me to breathe and try to understand why my reaction was so visceral in the first place.

I love Luis, I really do. The kind that comes from showing up without being asked, from listening without judgment, from making space for silence without trying to fill it.

Luis has been that for me. Constant in a way that’s unbalanced and completely undeserved.

He’s become one of the most important people in my life, but even with all the closeness we’ve built, there’s no current under my skin when he’s near.

No part of me that reaches for him without thinking. No pull. No ache.

With Silas, everything was sharp, consuming, and overwhelming in a way that felt impossible to outrun. It wasn’t always good, and God knows it wasn’t always healthy, but it was undeniable . The kind of connection that sank its teeth in and didn’t let go.

Some days, I wonder if that was my one big, messy, all-consuming love. The one that burned too hot, too fast, too beautifully, and the only thing left to do was let it die. Maybe I’m broken now. Or I’ve just changed.

I release an exhale.

We need to talk about it. I owe him that.

If he truly feels something more, we need to determine if there’s a way to salvage the friendship we do have without further damaging it. Luis deserves more than confusion, and far more than whatever mixed signals I might have given without meaning to.

I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder before sliding out of the front seat and shutting the door behind me. My boots crunch against the gravel as I clasp my hands behind my lower back and push out to stretch my chest.

The clouds hang low today, cloaking the valley in a thick mist. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about it, even when the view is obscured. I smile and inhale deeply. The air smells heavy and clean.

Lost in thought and the quiet rhythm of my footsteps as I approach the edge of the driveway to look out at the view, I don’t hear the second pair of boots behind me until it’s too late.

A hand clamps down around my still-clasped wrists, locking them in place. Pain shoots through my shoulders as I'm yanked backward, nearly losing my footing. My bag slips from my shoulder and catches at my elbow, throwing me further off balance. I twist, struggling to break free.

“Relax,” a voice hisses in my ear, low and calm. “If you don’t, this is going to hurt.”

Every muscle in my body locks up.

That voice.

Before I can place it or even move, a sharp sting pierces the side of my neck. I gasp as the pain flares hot and fast beneath my skin. My vision is already starting to flicker. I try to turn my head just enough to see dirty blonde hair and a flash of bright, hateful eyes.

The world tilts. Sound warps. My arms go limp.

His name surfaces just as my knees buckle.

I sink to the ground, and he lets me fall. The impact is distant and muted. Whatever was in that needle is already taking hold, pulling me under enough that I barely feel the sting of hitting the ground.

The last thing I register before everything goes dark is the quiet zip of my bag being opened and the low, distant rumble of thunder echoing across the trees.

—

The first time I come to, I'm laying down. My neck throbs from the angle my head is hanging. Vibrations hum against my cheek, rhythmic and low, but my body feels miles away. Even peeling my eyes open feels like a monumental effort.

Shapes melt together in streaks of shadow and light, the edges of the world refusing to stay still.

“…don’t know why you didn’t just take her out,” a voice mutters somewhere nearby. Male. Gruff. It sounds like it’s coming through a wall of cotton.

“Orders are orders,” someone else replies, calm and detached. It’s the person who whispered in my ear.

“Yeah, but—”

“Shut up. She’s waking up.”

I try to speak, to form anything that might sound like a question or a threat or a plea, but my tongue won’t cooperate. The only sound I manage is a faint, garbled moan.

Something causes me to jolt, sending a wave of nausea through me as my body shifts deeper into whatever seat I'm in.

The air smells faintly of leather and something sharp and chemical—too sharp. My eyes flutter once, twice, and the blur starts to spin.

Then everything fades again.

—

The next time I wake, the engine is louder. A low, constant roar that buzzes through my skull and rattles in my teeth.

Through half-lidded eyes, I catch glimpses of my surroundings. Metal walls. Narrow aisle. Oval windows with pale light bleeding in through clouds.

A plane?

“She’s really fighting those sedatives,” a familiar voice says somewhere nearby. There’s a faint note of amusement threaded through it.

“She should enjoy them while they last,” a female voice replies. “I can’t imagine what they’re going to do with her once we get back.”

A cold wave moves through me, but my body doesn’t respond. I try to lift a hand, shift my head, but it’s like being pinned beneath my own weight.

My mind screams at me to stay awake, to memorize their voices, to find an exit, but the pull of unconsciousness drags harder.

My eyes flicker shut before I can stop them, swallowed by the dark once again.

—

When I wake for the final time, the first thing I notice is the silence, because the ringing in my ears is almost deafening.

My head throbs with a slow, pulsing ache radiating from the base of my skull.

Nausea surges up fast, curling through my gut.

I turn my head just in time to retch bile onto the floor, the acid burning the back of my throat and nose.

Thin bands of pressure cinch against my wrists, chest, and calves, digging into skin already rubbed raw.

My vision swims as I blink and force my gaze downward. I’m tied to a chair. Coarse rope winds around my limbs, pinning me to the arms, legs, and back of it. The wood creaks beneath me as I shift, but the bindings don’t budge.

It takes several minutes for my mind to stop spinning long enough to absorb the rest of it. The room is bare with concrete walls. No windows or furniture aside from the chair I’m in. A single fluorescent light flickers above, casting harsh shadows and an unsettling hum that buzzes under my skin.

My chest tightens.

I pull at my arms again, but the ropes only dig deeper, cutting off circulation and leaving more angry, red marks in their wake. Terror rushes in to fill the space, flooding my veins like fire. My fingers go numb. My toes, too.

I force myself to count my breaths.

One. Two. Three.

I can’t lose it. Not now .

Before I can steady myself, there’s a sound outside the door. A low rumble, then the sharp screech of metal scraping metal.

“Well, well, well.”

My lungs seize. The breath I’ve just managed to take vanishes as my body locks up on instinct. I don’t need to see his face to know who it is.

My gaze drops to the floor before the door even fully opens, like some part of me remembers exactly how to protect itself.

“Look who’s back from the dead,” he announces, voice laced with both amusement and pure venom.

I don’t have to look up to feel it—his fury, thick and oppressive, trickling into the room ahead of him like smoke before a fire. His shadow stretches across the floor. It crawls over the concrete, swallowing the light until it touches me.

Not skin, not breath, not voice. Just the weight of him. The presence. The promise. It wraps around me and chokes.

Silent and inescapable.