‘‘Good girl.’’
And then he takes his time.
He draws me to the edge over and over, fingers and voice and heat and the ache of something that shouldn’t be possible, because he’s not alive. He’s not here. This is a dream.
And yet it’s the realest I’ve felt in a long time.
My body trembles as he builds me higher, threading me with pleasure and grief and power. When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, whispered into the storm.
He holds me after. Cradles me like something breakable and holy. His mouth presses against my shoulder, his breath warming my spine.
His hands are wrapped around me, his mouth now pressed to the back of my neck, breath like a promise he’s not supposed to keep.
And just as the dream starts to fray, as I fall into the warmth of him, he whispers, not cruel, not tender, but desperate in the way only he can hide:
“You’re not the only one in a cage, solnyshko.”
Chapter 20
Whispers of the Core
Aslanov
They come for me again.
The door groans open, the rusted hinges screeching like a wounded animal. Two figures step inside, the same ones as always. Their presence is familiar now, as routine as the cold seeping into my bones. The broad one grips my arm, his fingers pressing deep enough to bruise, while the leaner one unlocks the chain at my ankle.
They don’t speak. They don’t need to.
I don’t resist as they haul me up, though my muscles scream in protest. The weeks, or months, of confinement have left me weaker, my movements sluggish. My wrists are yanked forward, shackles biting into torn skin as they tighten the cuffs. Blood trickles from the fresh friction, but I don’t flinch.
Pain is constant here. It has become a part of me.
They march me down the corridor, the damp air thick with the scent of mildew and rust. The floor is uneven beneath my bare feet, cold stone rough against my skin. I focus on the rhythm of my steps; one after the other, steady, measured. It’s the only control I have left.
But control isn’t just about endurance. It’s about knowledge.
I force my mind to sharpen, pushing past the haze of exhaustion. I need to know everything.
I scan my surroundings with careful precision, committingevery detail to memory.
The corridor is long, narrow, and lined with doors, thick, reinforced metal with small, grated windows at eye level. Some are slightly ajar, revealing darkened rooms beyond. Others remain sealed, bolted shut.
The locks are industrial-grade, keypad access on some, manual locks on others. I note the wear and tear on the hinges, the rust creeping into the metal. Weak points.
The ceiling is low, pipes running along it in thick, tangled clusters. Exposed. If I could get my hands free, I might be able to use them.
The walls are concrete, cracked in places, damp seeping through from somewhere above. Basement level. Underground.
There are no windows.
No natural light.
I glance at the floor, searching for drains, any sign of ventilation. There, near the wall, a small grate, barely enough to fit a hand through.
Signs hang at intervals, peeling paint revealing older lettering beneath. Some are standard; warnings, identification numbers, room designations. Others are more telling. Emergency exit routes.
There.
