Olivia isn’t a lot number.She isn’t property for sale. She isn’t a product in their clean, expensive nightmare. She’s mine. Not because I bought her. Not because I own her the way they think men own things. Because she chose me. Because I chose her back. Because she is the only future I ever let myself touch, and they put her under lights for men to bid on like they won’t pay for every second of it.
My breathing evens. The last of the drug haze burns away. No panic now. No blind rage. No fear loud enough to drown out thought. Something worse takes its place. Purpose.
Logan glances at me. “Cobra.”
I don’t look away from the clock. “What?”
“You with us?”
My eyes stay on the screen. “Until we find her.”
“And after?”
I finally look at him.
The room holds still.
“After, I’m what they should’ve feared before they touched her.”
Logan doesn’t argue. Not this time. He looks back at the screen.
Fifty-seven minutes.
They think this is business.
I’m about to make it a massacre.
The silence breaks with the sound of the lock. It doesn’t click loudly. It doesn’t need to. The small shift of metal is enough to pull every nerve in my body tight, enough to make my breathing catch before I can stop it. My eyes snap to the door as it opens, and for a second I don’t move at all.
A man steps inside. Not the same one as before. That’s the first thing I notice. He doesn’t carry the same energy as the others. There’s no lazy cruelty in the way he looks at me. No casual interest. No amusement. He’s efficient.
That’s worse.
His eyes take in the room in one sweep before settling on me, not lingering, not dragging over me the way the others did. It’s quick. Assessing. Like he’s checking off a list. Alive. Responsive. Ready. He closes the door behind him without turning his back to me. That matters.
Everything matters now.
He walks toward the bed. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
I force myself to stay still, even though my body wants to pull away, wants to shrink, wants to fight in ways I know won’t help me.My wrists are still bound above me. My ankles still secured. My body aches from being held like this for too long, muscles pulled tight in ways they aren’t meant to be. The moment he reaches for my arm, my breath stutters.
“Don’t,” he says. Not harsh. Not loud. Flat. A statement, not a warning.
I freeze anyway.
He doesn’t look at my face when he says it. His attention stays on the restraints, on the work he’s about to do. That’s what this is to him. Work. He reaches for the binding at my wrist and begins to undo it. Slow. Deliberate. The pressure eases. Then, nothing but pain.
It explodes through my arm the second the restraint loosens enough for blood to rush back where it hasn’t been moving properly. My fingers twitch, then curl hard, nails digging into my palm as sensation comes back in jagged waves. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. No sound. No reaction he can use.
He frees the other wrist. Same thing. Fire. Pins and needles. Muscle screaming. Then my ankles. By the time the last restraint comes loose, my entire body feels like it’s been run through something sharp and dragged back out again. I don’t try to move right away. That would be a mistake. He steps back once everything is undone. Then he reaches into a bag I hadn’t realized he was carrying.
My body goes still again.
He pulls out a collar.Metal. Thick. Cold even from here.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t explain. He steps forward and places it around my neck before I can react. The metal presses against my skin, tight enough that I feel it immediately, the weight of it settling into something that doesn’t belong there. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible pressure along the inside, like small points pressing into me without breaking skin. Spikes. Not deep. Not yet. But close enough that I understand exactly what they’re capable of.
