When I open my eyes, I’m not sure if it’s morning or night. The dim light filtering through the heavy curtains in my room offers no clue. My head pounds, a dull, relentless ache that refuses to let me focus. My stomach churns, empty and angry, and my limbs feel like they’re made of lead.
It takes a moment for everything to come back–the dining room, the taunts, Callan’s hand on my thigh, the fork. Him hitting me. The floor.
And then… Jaxon.
I sit up slowly, clutching the edge of the bed as dizziness washes over me. My throat is dry, my muscles weak, and I feel like a ghost of myself. My mind keeps spinning with fragmented thoughts, all tangled up in the nightmare I’m living.
Tobias. Silas. Jaxon.
I don’t understand any of them. Tobias is cruel–that much is clear. He’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants, and he doesn’t care who he hurts along the way. He needs me alive, but that’s the only reason I’m still breathing. I’m useful. That’s it. If I weren’t…
I shudder, pulling my knees to my chest, my fingers gripping the fabric of my dress from last night. I don’t want to think about what would happen if I weren’t useful.
And Silas… He’s the charmer. The golden boy. But there’s something about him that feels too polished, too slick, like he’s hiding his real intentions behind that smirk of his. He reminds me too much of the other men here, the ones who think power makes them untouchable. Callan was just one of them. There are dozens more who would do the same thing–worse, even -if they thought they could get away with it.
Then there’s Jaxon.
My hands tighten on the dress as his name surfaces in my mind. Jaxon Steele. The Vipers‘ weapon. Their infamous killer. I don’t know what to think of him.
He’s cold. Detached. He doesn’t speak unless he has to, and when he does, his words are sharp enough to cut. I’m pretty sure he hates me. Every time I look at him, his eyes are like a storm, cold and violent, like he’s deciding whether or not I’m worth the effort of hating.
Maybe he wants to kill me.
And yet…
He’s saved my life. Twice now. First, in that meeting, when that man had his hands around my neck. And again last night, when Callan pulled his gun.
Why?
The question burns in my mind, a persistent itch I can’t scratch. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Jaxon doesn’t strike me as the type to do something unless it benefits him, unless it’s part of a plan. So what’s his plan?
Does he only keep me alive because I’m still useful? Because I’m the translator, and they need me to speak? If that’s the case, what happens when I’m not useful anymore?
Will he be the one to kill me?
The thought sends a chill down my spine, and I bury my face in my knees, squeezing my eyes shut. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me of how little I ate last night. I barely touched my food–just enough to keep them from noticing how weak I felt.
But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.
I feel like I’m falling apart. The hunger, the bruises, the constant fear–it’s all too much. And the worst part is that I can’t trust anyone. Not Tobias, not Silas, and certainly not Jaxon.
And yet…
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me last night. The way he told me to follow him, his voice low and steady, like he was giving me a choice when we both knew I didn’t have one. The way he cleaned the blood from my face, his movements rough but efficient, like he hated that he was doing it but couldn’t stop himself.
The way he grabbed my arm before I went into this room, his breath brushing against my face as he leaned in close and said, Next time one of these men tries to touch you, use your knife, not your fork.
It’s the only thing I can focus on. The only thing that keeps repeating in my mind,
A knife, not a fork.
I don’t understand him. I don’t know if I ever will. But I can’t stop trying to make sense of it, of him. Is he protecting me? Is he just following orders? Or is he waiting, biding his time
until I give them what they want?
