Luciana leaned her head back against the cool concrete wall, the cold biting into her skin and providing a faint anchor to reality. The dull ache in her body was constant, a heavy reminder of the day before, but the bruises and soreness didn't compare to the tension in her chest. She forced herself to breathe evenly, though the air was damp and stagnant.
The silence of their prison pressed against her, broken only by the sound of Enzo's steady breathing from across the gap. It was rhythmic, almost calming if she let herself focus on it. She should've been thinking about escape—mentally mapping the guards' movements, analyzing the weaknesses she'd seen. But her thoughts wouldn't cooperate.
They kept circling back to him.
Her gaze drifted across the short distance to where Enzo lay sprawled on the floor of his cell. His chest rose and fell slowly, and even in the dim light, she could make out the sharp lines of his face—the sharp curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell messily across his forehead.
She wasn't staring because he was handsome. He was, undeniably, but that wasn't what drew her in. It was something else. Something she couldn't put her finger on yet.
She replayed the events from earlier, the memory of his actions lingering like an echo in her mind. He had volunteered to take her place with Witmore. He'd seen the opportunity when the guard had stumbled and acted without hesitation, grabbing the man with a ferocity that belied his weakened state. And even after the guards struck him down, after vervain burned through his veins like fire, he was smiling, as if happy to oblige her.
She wondered how many times he'd faced this nightmare alone. How many years had he spent enduring Witmore's cruelty by himself? Her stomach twisted at the thought. She imagined what it would be like to be trapped in this endless cycle of torment, completely alone, and to still have the strength to smile.
Her gaze softened as it lingered on him. She wasn't sure she could be that strong. In fact, she was sure she couldn't.
Her fingers curled against the floor, nails scraping against the rough concrete. How long would she last here? Days? Weeks? Would her mind fracture before her body? The thought made her chest tighten, panic rising unbidden in her throat.
She sure as hell couldn't do this alone.
As if sensing her thoughts, Enzo stirred. A quiet groan escaped his lips as his fingers twitched against the floor. Luciana straightened, moving closer to the bars to watch him.
He shifted slightly, his head tilting toward her as his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, blinking against the dim light. Then his gaze landed on her, and she saw the exact moment recognition sparked in his dark eyes.
Relief washed over his face, softening his features. His lips curved into a crooked smile, weary but genuine.
"You weren't a dream," he murmured, his voice rough but steady.
Luciana blinked, caught off guard by his words, but managed a small, hesitant smile in return. She didn't know what to say.
...
It was maybe an hour later that Dr. Witmore appeared, flanked by two guards – the level-headed one from last night, and a new one. She wondered if the other one had gotten in trouble or been fired.
"I heard you two had quite a night," Dr. Witmore said flatly. The tsk-tsk in his tone was mocking in how little he seemed to care.
Luciana's breath hitched as his cold gaze shifted to her. She pressed her back against the wall without meaning to, hating how instinctive the movement felt.
Enzo's voice broke through the tension, weak but laced with a trace of humor. "Fair is fair, Doc. It's my turn."
Luciana's stomach twisted, guilt cutting through her like a knife. She hated herself for it, but a small, desperate part of her wanted Witmore to take him. She couldn't go through it again—not the pain, not the invasive touch of his hands, not the way it made her feel hollow and raw.
Not again.
Dr. Witmore didn't even look at Enzo. "Hm. Interesting," he said, almost to himself, before stepping toward her cell.
Luciana's heart pounded in her chest, her body locking up even as adrenaline flooded her veins. When the cell door creaked open, she moved instinctively, lunging for the farthest corner.
The guards were on her in seconds.
She fought like a feral cat, clawing and kicking and twisting against their grip. Then came the sting of a needle, sharp and immediate. The warmth of the vervain spread quickly, and her strength drained away like water through her fingers.
The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Dr. Witmore's cold, detached expression.
...
Luciana woke to the harsh glare of overhead lights burning into her eyes. Her body was heavy, sluggish, her limbs unresponsive. The cold metal of the operating table pressed against her bare back, and every nerve in her body screamed in protest.
Then the pain hit.
It wasn't a sharp, immediate pain—it was deeper, raw, like something was being torn apart inside her. Her head pounded with a relentless rhythm, and her stomach felt as though it were on fire.
"Very interesting," came Dr. Witmore's detached voice, breaking through the haze.
Her vision swam as she turned her head just enough to see him. His hands—gloved, bloodied—were moving inside her abdomen, his face calm and clinical.
"Subject 21307 appears to have a healthy uterus," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Begs the question: can vampires have their own offspring?"
His words barely registered, drowned out by the pounding in her head and the screaming pain radiating from her core. Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow, as she clenched her jaw. She could feel her teeth grinding against each other, the pressure threatening to crack them.
God damn it, she thought, her mind swimming. I'm not going to scream.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Her eyes darted around the room, struggling to focus through the haze of agony. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, their hum blending with the distant murmurs of guards outside the door. The metallic smell of her own blood was overwhelming, sharp and nauseating.
Her gaze landed on the tray of instruments beside the table, gleaming under the harsh light. Scalpels, forceps, needles—any one of them could be a weapon. It was so close, maybe three feet away, but might as well have been miles.
Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly to the table, the leather straps digging into her skin. She strained against them, but the vervain in her system left her weak and trembling.
Holy hell, his hands were still moving.
Another bolt of pain shot through her abdomen, white-hot and excruciating. It stole her breath, her thoughts scattering like shards of glass. She couldn't focus. She couldn't think. All she could do was feel—feel his fingers slicing and prodding, feel the invasive wrongness of it all.
Damn it!
Her mind screamed at her to fight, to do something, but every nerve in her body was consumed by the unbearable pain. She caught a glimpse of the guards near the door—two of them, standing at attention but watching her with faint disinterest.
Three against one, she thought, her mind latching onto the numbers like a lifeline. But the thought was fleeting, drowned out by another wave of searing agony that made her vision blur.
She tried again to focus on the tray of tools, on the guards, on anything—but the pain was unrelenting, merciless. It consumed her, leaving no room for strategy or defiance.
Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps. The room swam around her, the edges of her vision darkening. The hum of the lights, the distant voices, the metallic tang of blood—all of it began to fade.
Mercy came when the darkness finally took her.
...
Luciana woke to the faint smell of blood. It was sharp, metallic, and immediate, cutting through the fog in her mind. Her body ached in ways she didn't know were possible, every muscle screaming in protest as she shifted.
The first thing she saw was the small paper cup sitting just inside the bars of her cell.
She stared at it for a long moment, her mind sluggish and disoriented. The blood inside was dark, only a few ounces, but the sight of it made her stomach clench with a desperate, gnawing hunger.
Forcing herself to move, she pushed herself up with trembling arms, the concrete floor rough against her palms. Pain flared through her abdomen, and she froze, her breath catching.
She reached out slowly, her hand shaking as she wrapped her fingers around the cup. The paper was thin, damp against her skin, but she didn't care.
She hated how much relief washed over her as she brought the cup to her lips. She hated how the blood tasted awful and somehow so good at the same time.
As she drank, a single feeling burned her, louder than the pain – shame.
Shame to play their game. To eat enough to stay alive and weak, to never have a real chance to fight back. To give them what they want.
She crushed the empty cup in her hand, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the wall, willing the fresh tears to stop again.
"I was a soldier before all of this," came Enzo's voice, breaking the silence.
She looked at him sharply, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was sitting up now, leaning against the bars of his cell with an ease that didn't match his haggard appearance.
His accent caught her attention again, low and smooth, comforting in a way she didn't want to admit. "You?"
Luciana hesitated, caught off guard by the question. Was he trying to distract her?
"…Librarian by day," she admitted finally, her voice quieter than she intended. "...dancer by night."
One of his dark brows quirked up, intrigue flickering across his face. She braced herself for the inevitable follow-up, the question men always asked when they heard the word dancer.
But his response surprised her.
"What's your favorite book?" he asked instead, his tone light but genuine. "I've been rather starved for literature over the years, as you can imagine."
Her brow rose, confused again.
"Do you know any good stories, Luciana?"
She blinked, caught in his gaze.
She did.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She rested her head back against the wall and let her mind wander for a moment, sifting through memories of the books she'd loved, the stories that had felt like home.
"I do," she said softly.
His lips curved into a faint smile, encouraging her.
"Tell me," he said. "We've got time."