Talk To Me

Chapter Sixteen

February thirteen

The shower did nothing to soothe Leah. The water ran over her skin, but it wasn't cleansing—it was just another reminder of where she was, of what she had become in their hands. She could barely comprehend the nightmare she was trapped in, and worse, she was beginning to accept that it wasn't just a nightmare at all.

Reality settled like a weight on her chest as Tiny dragged her back to the room, his grip firm but not cruel. He moved with the ease of someone who had done this before—too many times. The cold bite of metal returned as he shackled her wrists to the bedposts once more. Leah's mind screamed at her to fight, to claw, to bite—but her body betrayed her. She was too weak, too drained. Every muscle ached, and her limbs felt foreign, detached, useless.

Time stretched and twisted as Leah lay there, staring up at the cracked, mold-streaked ceiling. The day inched forward at a torturous pace. She counted the spots in the plaster, anything to distract from the gnawing hunger in her stomach, the hollow ache in her chest.

Her family.

She thought of them in flashes—her grandmother's warm hands smoothing her hair, Oliver's laugh echoing through the house, her father's quiet strength. The pain of their absence cut deeper than anything done to her here.

By the time the light in the room dimmed into a murky gray, Leah knew it was evening again. Silence pressed against the walls, thick and suffocating. Only the occasional murmur outside the door reminded her that she wasn't entirely alone in this hell.

Then—a muffled scream. Leah's breath hitched.

Lily.

The sound was distant but unmistakable. A choked, desperate cry from somewhere down the corridor. Leah's throat clenched, and her eyes burned with helpless tears. The plan—whatever hope they had clung to—felt like a cruel joke now.

Separated, trapped, powerless.

She turned her head, pressing her cheek into the damp pillow, and that's when she felt it—the wetness pooling beneath her ear.

Blood.

It had dripped sluggishly from the wound, seeping into the fabric, the stain growing larger with every passing second.

The door burst open with a heavy thud. Leah flinched, her eyes snapping open just as Diesel strode inside. He looked tense. Even in the dim light, she could see the sheen of sweat on his bald head, the way it glistened along his thick neck. He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, wiping away whatever threatened to drip to the floor.

"Do you remember the rules?" he asked, voice gruff, his fingers gripping a length of black cloth.

Leah's stomach twisted, but she nodded. Diesel stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The closer he came, the harder her heart pounded. She braced herself, body rigid, as he bent over her. The cloth wrapped around her head, stealing her sight, and plunging her into darkness.

A soft whimper slipped from her lips, unbidden. Leah clenched her fists. She hated the sound of her own fear, hated how her body trembled against the restraints. She shifted, trying to test the chains, but her wrists and ankles screamed in protest. The bruises were fresh, the skin raw and swollen. Each movement sent a sharp, stinging pain through her body.

Metal scraped against her wrist, slick and damp. Blood or sweat—she couldn't tell. Diesel leaned in close.

"No," he whispered against her ear, his breath thick with the smell of pork and old cigarettes. "Stay quiet, or you'll regret it later."

Leah swallowed hard.

The gnawing hunger in her stomach twisted into something sharper, more nauseating. Had it been twenty-four hours since her last meal? Longer?