Kidnapped Love

Chapter 25

Chapter 25:

Hunger claws at my insides, a relentless beast that grows fiercer with each hour slipping by. Derek's words echo in the hollow of my stomach, his threat to starve me haunting the edges of my consciousness. I shiver, considering the possibility of fabricating a tale to appease Byron's quest for information. Yet deceit is a gamble with stakes too high; punishment from Byron would be swift, merciless.

I curl tighter on the unforgiving concrete, the chill seeping into my bones despite the red blanket enveloping me. It's a poor substitute for warmth, yet I cling to it, trying to draw every ounce of comfort from its threadbare fibers. Derek's gesture of giving it to me feels distant now, as if from another life where his presence didn't signal intimidation but protection. His black hair and muscular figure flash in my mind—the same build that once offered safety now looms as a symbol of captivity.

The blanket's scratchy texture against my skin is a constant reminder of my reality. It's not like Derek's embrace, which could have been warm, inviting. Instead, this fabric is indifferent, impersonal—just another item in the inventory of my confinement. My fingers trace the weave of the blanket, seeking solace in its tangible presence. It's doing its best to shield me from the cold, but it can't fend off the growing weakness that threatens to consume me.

Every muscle in my body aches with the effort to simply exist in this desolate cell. The need to speak, to plead for mercy or food, burns in my throat, but I swallow it down, knowing that words are currency here—a currency I'm running low on. Silence has become my sullen companion, the only thing I can truly call mine in this place ruled by Byron's iron will.

His image looms large in my thoughts—brown hair, extremely tall with broad shoulders that fill any doorway he strides through. His muscular form isn't just intimidating; it's a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding. And when he speaks, his voice rasps deep into the marrow, a sound you feel as much as hear. It's a voice that doesn't ask—it commands, expects obedience without question.

Closing my eyes, I try to steady my breathing, try to center myself amidst the gnawing emptiness. Every part of me yearns for release, for an end to this ordeal, but the fear of what lies ahead keeps me paralyzed, huddled under the red blanket that offers a whisper of warmth in a world grown cold.

Every pulse of my heart is a reminder of the creeping weakness in my limbs. Through half-lidded eyes, blurred by fatigue, I envision that maybe somewhere out there, they're searching for me, piecing together my disappearance. My thoughts drift, untethered from the grim reality of my cell.

The night is clear as I wander beneath the stars leading up to my mother's front porch. The soft yellow glow of the porch light beckons me closer. I can almost feel the cool breeze, taste the freedom in the air. There she is, my mom, Lori, her face alight with joy, framed by the doorway. She sweeps her blonde hair back, arms open wide to welcome me home. "Hello," she murmurs, her voice the embodiment of comfort.

"Hello?" An irritated echo worms its way into the tranquil scene. Trish, looking exasperated, stands beside Ron, both of them flickering like an unstable signal. Confusion tugs at me, their images beginning to shake and distort.

"Hello?" It calls again, relentless, shattering my illusion. The dream dissolves completely, and I'm jolted back to the cruel confines of my prison. The word hangs in the stale air of the room, a lifeline thrown into the depths of my despair.

With effort, I push myself upright, my body protesting as I peel away from the unforgiving concrete. The clank of metal signals life beyond these walls. A tall, dark figure materializes, cloaked in the oppressive black that seems to be the uniform here. "I need to use the restroom," the soft voice insists, polite yet firm.