The same masked man.
The same hands.
The same presence that taught me what helplessness feels like.
My attention shifts back to Cain, but he remains perfectly still, as if hearing that voice beside him is the most normal thing in the world.
“What the fuck…” The words tear out of me raw and breathless as I look between them again.
The gun.
The beating.
Cain on the floor.
The threats.
My stomach twists so hard I nearly gag.
“What the fuck is happening?!” Something vicious cuts through the fear flooding my chest and settles into rage so fast it leaves no room for anything else. “You disgusting piece of shit,” I rasp at Cain, my throat so raw the words scrape coming out. “Let me go!”
Neither of them moves. Cain’s attention drifts over my face with the calm attention of someone checking whether medication worked as expected.
“You’re awake sooner than I thought,” he says, voice even, almost bored.
I thrash violently against the restraints, the friction burning instantly into my skin. “I said, let me go!”
The mattress shifts beneath me, metal groaning softly under the force of it, but nothing gives.
“I’m not crazy,” I spit out, louder now, panic threading through every word whether I want it there or not. “Do you understand me? “I’m not fucking crazy, so what did you tell them? What did you tell the ambulance? The hospital?”
He says nothing, and somehow the silence lands harder than laughter ever could. My breathing turns shallow as memory starts pushing through the fog in broken flashes.
My hands gripping the dashboard.
The road slick beneath us.
Then Cain beside me—too calm—one hand tightening on the wheel.
The violent wrench to the side.
The barrier.
The drop.
“You pulled the wheel.” The words come out quieter than everything else, but they shake far more. His expression doesn’t change, and that only feeds the terror spreading wider through my chest.
I pull in another breath, fragile and uneven, like my body’s struggling to keep up now.
“You wanted us dead.” My voice cracks before rising with the fear behind it. “Why would you do that? Why would you drive us off that bridge?”
He finally closes the distance between us, the clean smell of soap reaching me instantly, edged with something metallic that makes my stomach tighten as the memory of trusting him crashes back in. I hate that thought almost as much as I hate how untouched he seems by any of this.
He lowers his gaze to mine with the calm patience of someone entirely unbothered by the fear tearing through me.
“You still think the bridge was the problem.” The corner of his mouth lifts before a soft laugh leaves him—low and cold—as if my pain is the most entertaining thing he’s witnessed all day.
Before I can say anything else, his hand settles around my ankle with almost insulting gentleness. He slides his palm upward in no hurry at all, over my shin, past my knee, until he reaches the raw ache high on my leg. Then his fingers clamp down.
