The warmth of my family's kitchen evaporated like mist, replaced by a stark new reality that slammed back into me like a punch.
I was still here. I had been the whole time. Just dreaming, I think. Or thinking. I don't know if I was conscious or not, but it had felt so real. Like I was back there again in that moment, the Saturday before everything changed, before I was kidnapped.
My eyes were wet before I realised. The tears were drying down either side of my face.
I was strapped down again, wrists and ankles secured to the cold metal table, my mouth taped shut. My heart sank as I blinked through the lingering haze of the dream. The cloying scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above.
Before I could fully process the dream, my eyes landed on Dylan.
As soon as we made eye contact, he grinned, slow and creepy. He'd been standing there for at least five minutes, watching me wake up again like a predator observing his prey.
He strolled towards me with the same casual arrogance that made my stomach turn every time we met.
Then he laughed. A dry, unhinged laugh that scraped along my spine.
"Well then?" he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. "Did he ruin you?"
My entire body stiffened. Despite the tears, anger and fear sparked under my skin, but all I could do was glare at him weakly.
He paused beside me, his grin fading slightly. I saw his expression change. "You know..." he muttered, almost thoughtfully, gaze dropping to his fingers ghosting the edge of the table. "I used to be afraid of blood too."
My eyes narrowed as I tried to process it. A confession of sorts.
His voice softened, just slightly, and with an almost bittersweet tone. "Until Tyler helped me."
The words hung in the air. It was a revelation I should've seen coming, to be honest. But I didn't realise it until he said it.
Now it made sense. He was an ex-patient.
His eyes wandered over my face, examining it, and let the silence stretch. But then he turned to the counter.
It was then that I realised something else. The knife I had seen on the counter, when Faisal warned me to escape — the one I had tried to reach — was still there.
When he faced me again, that same knife flashed in his hand.
I had the same reaction as I always did. My body seized up, my eyes widened, and I struggled to breathe as I gasped and sobbed through my nose.
He chuckled, running the flat edge of the blade along his fingertips, admiring the glint of it like it was a toy.
And then — in absolute horror and disbelief — I watched as he drew the blade across his own palm.
The skin split open without hesitation. He barely flinched.
And then, horrifyingly, he moaned .
A sick, guttural sound of pleasure.
My stomach lurched.
"I think I enjoy it a bit too much now," he said breathlessly, eyes locked on the blood pooling on his skin.
Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his mouth and licked it. He savoured it. The taste of his own blood.
A shiver of revulsion passed through me as his eyes fluttered shut, his tongue tracing the wound like it was a delicacy.
"Fuck," he whispered. "So... delicious."
I gagged hard, unable to tear my eyes away. Dylan grinned when he noticed, the blood staining his teeth like something out of a literal horror movie.
"You'll learn to like it too, you know," he said, voice giddy, almost childlike. "He'll teach you, just like he taught me. Then we can enjoy it together. You and me, Emily. How does that sound?"
He sat down beside me, twirling the knife in his hand. I stared at the blade, my heart hammering inside me.
I wanted to take the knife and kill him.
"Why don't you have a little taste?" he said, cocking his head, bringing his flat palm to my face.
I shook my head violently and stretched my neck as far away from him as I could.
He pouted. "Ugh, you're no fun."
But it didn't stop there. He wasn't done yet. I barely heard what he said next.
"I'm sure the Boss won't mind if I just..."
He raised the knife and pressed it to my cheek, the cold metal grazing my skin. I panicked and froze, eyes squeezing tightly shut, preparing myself to feel it.
Then came the sharp, searing pain.
I screamed behind the tape. The blade had cut clean across my cheek. Not deep, but enough to hurt. Enough to bleed.
"Mmm," Dylan hummed, admiring his handiwork. "Perfect."
I whimpered quietly. I felt... broken.
He leaned in again. I tried to turn away, but his fingers wrapped around my jaw, holding me in place.
With a gross, wet lick, he lapped up the blood from my cheek.
His satisfied groan vibrated through me. He was aroused by the taste of it. My blood. Like a vampire.
"Oh my God... fucking delicious..."
I slowly opened my eyes to see his eyes rolled back in his head, blood dribbling with spit down his chin. When they came back to focus on me, his eyes were glazed, consumed with something darker than desire.
I sobbed quietly, my body trembling in shock and agony. I wanted to scream.
Dylan leaned in, lips brushing my ear.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered. "Tyler has plans for you... but me? I'm here to make sure you understand what fear really is."
Then—
Clang .
The door slammed open.
Dylan froze. His face immediately paled. He spun around, desperately trying to hide the knife behind his back.
Tyler stormed in.
Another man followed — someone I didn't know.
Tyler's face was thunderous. "Dylan," he hissed.
Dylan visibly recoiled.
"What are you doing here?"
"N-nothing, sir—" Dylan stammered, sounding ironically pathetic now.
Tyler didn't need to respond. His eyes swept the room. The blood on Dylan's lips that he tried to lick clean. The droplets of blood on the floor. The knife in his hand.
And then his eyes met mine — and the fresh cut across my left cheek.
His gaze locked for a second. His whole face shifted.
His brows drew together, low and hard, eyes narrowing until they burned. His jaw tightened, clenched so hard the muscle jumped. A vein pulsed at his temple. His nostrils flared with shallow, raging breaths.
"You fucking touched her!?" he exploded, storming forward.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You've gone too far!"
He slammed Dylan back against the wall with a sickening thud , one hand gripping his throat so tightly it could've snapped his neck. Dylan gasped breathlessly, eyes bulging, scrabbling at Tyler's arm.
But he didn't relent. He shoved harder, earning a pained sound from the younger man as he was lifted from the floor until his feet were dangling.
"How dare you!" he roared again, voice cracking with rage. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Dylan choked, the knife slipping from his hand and clattering uselessly to the floor. His fingers clawed at Tyler's wrist, legs kicking weakly, face getting redder.
Dylan looked close to passing out.
Then Tyler let go.
He crumpled, hitting the ground hard, coughing violently, dragging in shuddering breaths.
"What's wrong with you? You— you used to let me have fun... Why not now?" He choked out, clutching his bruised throat.
Tyler didn't give him the chance to finish. He yanked Dylan's arms behind his back, forcing them together with brutal efficiency.
"Because she's not yours to touch."
I heard that. It was quiet. Restrained. But I heard it. I wasn't meant to.
"Lee," he snapped, not looking up. "Cuffs."
The man stepped forward, silently locking the handcuffs in place as Dylan continued to plead on the floor, now half-sobbing apologies.
I watched the whole scene, only barely registering what was happening.
Tyler leaned down and whispered in Dylan's ear, "You're going to be punished for this. Worse than ever before. Do you understand?"
He stood, turned to Lee, and said, quietly.
"Drag him to his chamber. I'll be down there in a minute."
Lee nodded, dragging Dylan by the arms across the floor, his boots scraping against the ground. At the threshold, Dylan twisted around, eyes wet, mouth still moving.
But no one listened.
He was gone.
And the room fell silent.
When the intensity of the moment had finally settled, Tyler turned to look at me.
But the expression on his face wasn't what I expected.
I expected cold detachment.
I was met with... regret? Guilt? Something deeper?
It was nothing more than a small flicker of emotion in his eye, a detail I should've missed — but didn't.
He stepped closer, slower now, his face unreadable.
"Emily," he said, uncharacteristically soft.
He crouched beside me.
"I'm... sorry that happened."
He peeled the tape from my mouth, slow and careful.
"Are you okay?"
I gave the smallest nod, my body stiff and confused.
He reached out, inspecting the cut on my cheek with the gentleness of a surgeon.
"That little shit," he mumbled, more to himself. The fury still made the words bite and I felt it.
He wasn't just angry at Dylan.
He was angry at himself.
I asked myself if he actually cared... About me.
Up until now, I'd got nothing from him but cruelty and teasing touches, but this?
What the hell was this?
He unfastened each restraint and freed me.
The moment I was freed, I curled away from him on the table, pulling my limbs in, shaking, crying in the fetal position.
It confused me. It scared me. All of it.
Him.
He stepped away briefly and returned with a blanket — plucked it from somewhere in the room, it seemed. He draped it over me with a gentleness and warmth that spoke of some kind of emotion he didn't want to acknowledge, and at this moment, neither did I.
I wrapped it tightly around myself like a shield and curled deeper into myself, burying my hands under my chin. It did little to warm me. I couldn't stop shivering. My stomach churned. My cheek throbbed dully.
"He's going to pay for this, Emily," he whispered, voice wavering.
And then the door shut.
And he was gone.
I didn't sleep. Only lay there, haunted by the slick, wet touch of Dylan's tongue on my skin...