Alessa's POV
The night air is thick—wet and heavy. I can taste the city on my tongue, gasoline and filth mixing into something rancid. The streetlights flicker as I step out of the café, my heart still warm from the vanilla latte I forced myself to finish.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Too many.
I freeze. My fingers tighten around my purse, nails digging into the leather. The café door swings shut behind me, locking me out. I should turn around, walk fast, call someone—anyone. But my body won't move.
A shadow looms.
Then another.
And another.
Before I can scream, a hand clamps over my mouth.
My world explodes into chaos.
A rag presses hard against my face, and the smell—thick, chemical, wrong—hits me like a truck. My legs buckle, my body convulses as I fight, but I can't breathe, can't think.
I claw at the hand, at the arm, my nails tearing skin, but my strength is nothing. The world spins violently, the dark swallowing me whole.
Then—nothing.
—
Cold. That's the first thing I feel.
A deep, sickening cold, seeping into my bones.
My eyes snap open, but all I see is black. Panic slams into my chest. My arms won't move. My legs are trapped. Something thick and rough presses against my mouth—duct tape.
I start screaming.
My body thrashes, jerks, fights, but it's useless. My wrists are tied behind me, my ankles bound tight. The more I struggle, the more the ropes burn, cutting into my skin like knives.
A single click cuts through the darkness.
Light floods the room.
I flinch, blinking hard, my vision stinging as shadows take shape. Bare concrete walls. A metal chair beneath me. A single bulb swaying above. And them.
Men.
Four of them.
Big. Rough. Wrong.
They watch me like I'm something less than human.
One of them steps forward. He's massive, bald, his face scarred like someone carved him up for fun. He grins, kneeling down so our eyes meet.
"Aw, she's awake," he mutters, voice thick with amusement. "Thought we hit her too hard."
Another man laughs, leaning against the wall. "She looks fucking terrified."
Scarface grabs my chin, squeezing hard. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. "You should be, sweetheart."
I jerk away, my scream muffled against the tape. My heart is slamming, my stomach twisting.
They enjoy this. I can see it in their eyes.
Scarface stands, cracking his knuckles. "Boss says we gotta keep her alive." His grin turns sharp. "But he never said we can't have fun first."
The others chuckle, low and dark.
I start thrashing, wild and desperate, my body screaming for escape.
A fist slams into my gut.
White-hot pain detonates through me. My body jerks violently, my lungs wheezing, the tape choking my scream.
"Feisty," one of them mutters.
Scarface grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. My neck strains, tears spilling down my cheeks. "Let's see how long that lasts."
I shake my head, sobbing, trying to beg through the tape. But they don't care.
A knife appears. Cold steel presses against my thigh, dragging slow, deliberate. My skin shudders. My breath is ragged, pure terror flooding every inch of me.
"Relax, sweetheart," Scarface murmurs, pressing harder until I whimper. "It'll only hurt the first few times."
The others laugh.
I know what's coming.
And I know there's no one coming to save me.
Not from them.
And definitely not from him.
Dante Valentie