Fear

7

This was never going to be a story with a happy ending. It wasn't for me, and it won't be for you, either.

Act One was misdirection — a lull before the descent: a false reassurance and a warning.

I swore I'd tell this story, every filthy detail of it. Even if I stain the pages with blood and tears. So here we are.

This is Act One.

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When I woke up again, I found myself face to face with the devil who kidnapped me.

Tyler sat before me, unmoving, silent, as though he'd been watching me for hours. His face was calm, almost gentle, but something was wrong in its stillness. He looked poised.

I glanced down. My arms were strapped to a cold, steel table in front of me, and thick leather restraints bit into my wrists, hard and unforgiving. My forearms had been twisted outward. I couldn't move, no matter how much I tried. My legs were also strapped to the chair I sat on, and my mouth was, once again, duct-taped.

I began to panic, my fear taking control of me as I thrashed about wildly, tears already forming in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't breathe properly through my nose — every inhale burned my nostrils.

As my panic slowly began to subside, I glared up at him, trying my best to control myself. But it was as if he could see right through me. He chuckled, drawing my attention. I watched his head tilt. I watched the darkness shift in his deep, onyx eyes.

"Emily." His deep voice vibrated in my chest. I felt it — like a wave rushing through me. My breath hitched. The tension was agonising. I was suddenly locked in a tense and uncomfortable eye contact. He scowled, a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth and furrowed eyebrows betraying anger brewing beneath the surface before it came.

"Do you know why you're here, sweetheart?" His voice curled out of him slow and smooth, like it was meant to sound gentle, but everything underneath was coiled wire. I shook my head, as much as I could.

He nodded once, pressing the tips of his fingers together in front of him. "I was going to do this next week. I really was." He looked almost mournful as he frowned. "But you were caught talking to another patient... Like rules don't apply to you."

The way he said "rules" — casual yet authoritative — made my stomach turn.

He tilted his head, sharply. "Do you know how hard I worked to break that boy? And you—" he laughed, bitterly — "you whispered like the walls don't have ears."

I didn't respond. I was too busy trying not to shake. I whimpered through the duct tape, and his eyes lit up like I'd just given him a gift.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on the edge of the table, his face inches from mine. "You know what that tells me, Emily?" He didn't blink. "It tells me you're still not afraid enough."

He reached for my arm. His fingers slid along my wrist, just under the leather strap. A featherlight touch. My whole body flinched.

"You disappoint me, Emily." Then he smiled, a slow, sly grin that didn't reach his eyes.

And then, like a flicked switch, his voice dipped into something colder — and teasing.

"You've been a very naughty girl."

Heat rose to my face before I could stop it. I immediately looked away, humiliated by my body's betrayal. He saw. Of course he saw. I gulped, my throat dry.