Midnight Howling Book 1

Chapter 40: Bound In Blood

Lyras POV

The cold of the basement floor seeped into Lyra's bones, a deep, unshakable chill that matched the hollow ache in her chest. The damp air was thick with mildew, carrying the staleness of forgotten places, places people avoided. Every movement was a struggle, each breath tight with the sharp sting of bruised ribs. She leaned against the rough, crumbling stone wall, her body slumped, barely holding itself together. Her eyes, half-lidded, traced the flickering shadows cast by the single dim light bulb dangling above her, the weak light stretching across the concrete floor.

The room was small, claustrophobic. Rusted metal shelves lined one side, cluttered with tools and old equipment caked in dust and grime. The smell of oil, blood, and damp earth clung to everything, heavy and oppressive. The bars of the cage surrounding her were new, sturdy iron that looked freshly welded into the floor—smooth at the top, but uneven where they met the ground. It was designed to keep her in, but Lyra's eyes scanned for any imperfection, any weakness.

The sound of the basement door creaking open sent a sharp jolt of tension through her. Every muscle tightened, her heartbeat quickening. Footsteps echoed on the stairs, slow and deliberate, each step reverberating through the walls. She didn't need to see who it was—the familiar scent of leather and sweat told her. Andrew.

He came down the stairs cautiously, his movements almost hesitant. Andrew wasn't like the others. He wasn't coming to hurt her, but he wasn't coming to save her either. Lyra's swollen eyes followed him as he dragged a rickety wooden stool across the concrete, the scraping sound grating in the silence. He sat just outside her cage, his shoulders slumped, his eyes cast downward.

For a long while, the only sounds between them were their shallow breaths and the faint buzzing of the exposed light bulb overhead. The air was thick with unsaid things, the tension hanging in the damp, musty basement. Lyra's body trembled, her skin cold and clammy, but she forced herself to speak, her voice little more than a broken whisper.

"Thank you," she managed, her throat tight and raw.

Andrew didn't respond, his eyes never lifting from the ground. He didn't need to say anything. The faint clenching of his jaw told her he had heard, even if he wasn't ready to acknowledge it. She knew he wasn't her enemy—not entirely. There had been moments, small ones, where he had shown kindness. Little things, like leaving extra scraps of food on his plate, knowing she would get them later.

He exhaled heavily, the sound filled with frustration. "You shouldn't have come back," he muttered, his voice low, a mixture of regret and something harder to place.

Lyra's chest tightened at his words, a spark of defiance flaring inside her despite the pain. She shifted, the sharp movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her ribs, but she ignored it. "I didn't have a choice," she whispered, her voice strained but firm.

Andrew's eyes flicked up, startled by the strength in her tone. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, confusion passed over his face, followed by something close to guilt. His lips parted as if to say something, but he stayed silent, his gaze drifting back to the floor.

Lyra slumped back against the wall, her brief surge of energy draining away. Regret settled in her chest like a heavy stone. She hadn't meant to snap at him. Her voice softened as she continued, the exhaustion clear in her words. "I did get away," she whispered, her voice cracking with the memory. "I had a life. For a month... it was amazing." She paused, her breath catching as she swallowed the lump in her throat. "I had a real family."

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Andrew's hands clenched together, his knuckles turning white. His head bowed, and for the first time, Lyra saw something she had never expected—regret. His voice was barely audible, a soft, broken whisper. "I'm sorry."