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Tears slip down my temples and into my hair.
The horror of each thrust is too much. I feel myself slipping, my mind fraying at the edges. I want to end this nightmare, but I can’t even will myself to stop breathing. The drug keeps me alive, keeps me paralyzed, prolonging the torture.
Amid the despicable assault, I feel something.
It’s faint, invisible, but it’s there. Something warm against my hand, where it rests on Wolf’s sleeve.
My heart stutters, wild hope kicking through my veins. I must be imagining it, some cruel trick of the mind.
But no. I feel it again. A pulse of heat, a flicker of life.
My eyes dart to Wolf, my vision smeared with tears. He looks dead, his face ashen, his lips pale, and his chest as still as a frozen lake.
Then I feel it again. A twitch. A spasm. A tiny movement under my hand, so small it could be nothing.
But it’s not nothing. It’s hope. It’s life. It’s warm, living flesh.
His arm shifts so subtly beneath my fingers, adjusting just enough to let me feel his hand, the microscopic movements, and the blood pumping under his skin.
Oh, my God.
He’s not dead.
He’s alive. He’s fucking alive.
And he’s trying to hold my hand.
The realization crashes over me, so powerful it overwhelms me. Relief, joy, disbelief—it all hits at once. If my throat worked, I would choke on the intensity of it.
But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s just my mind, twisted by grief and fear, playing tricks on me?
I feel it again, and this time, there’s no doubt. He’s moving. He’s alive.
The tears that fall now are different, still silent, but no longer just despair. There’s something else in them. Hope. Desperate, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless.
Rhett finishes with a satisfied sigh, his breath hot and rancid against my chest.
He pulls my robe closed as if that can erase what he’s done.
Stepping back, he straightens his clothes and checks his phone. “They’re almost here.”
His gaze goes distant, like he’s already thinking ahead to the next atrocity he’s going to commit. Then he strides out of the kitchen, his footsteps retreating toward the front room.
As soon as he’s gone, the adrenaline hits me like a lightning bolt, searing through the fog of drugs and anguish.
Blood thrashes in my ears, and my heart hammers so fast I can hardly think.
Wolf is alive.
He’s alive.
He’s right here, with me, and we might have a chance. A slim one, but it’s something. I can’t lose him again. I can’t lose any of them.
I focus on his face, willing him to open his eyes, to give me some sign that he’s with me.
Is he unconscious? Drugged with a sedative, not a paralytic? I scan his body for any sign of an IV line or fluid bag, but I can’t see anything. It might be under his coat.
Is he fighting it, just like I’m fighting the chemicals in my veins?
