4. Frankie

Chapter 4

Frankie

The Past

Valerie’s voice echoes in my mind, sharp and cold. “When I call” — the phone dangles just out of reach, her smile twisted — “you answer.” It’s a sick game showcasing her control. “If you don’t—” Punishment remains unspoken but understood.

I won’t give her the satisfaction. I won’t take the bait, even though every muscle in my body screams to snatch the phone away.

“Are you even listening to me, Frankie?” Her voice drips with false sweetness, but the threat is unmistakable.

“Yes.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If I do, she will hurt me, and sometimes hurt holds such a broad definition that I don’t ever want to know what she’s thinking of. I quickly learned that hurt can mean far more than just physical.

“Perfect.” She squeaks and does a little hop. There is an odd light in her eyes full of maliciousness. “So today I want you to learn how to dance.”

My heart drops, and all I can do is blink at her. Her smile terrifies me.

“Follow me.” She spins around, still holding the phone she promised to give me. I stare at her back as she walks out of the room she kept me chained in for a year.

It’s strange. The prison is almost a safe space — a place I know I will come back to, one that is mine in a way even if it’s not… or maybe I just have Stockholm syndrome. Could be either. All I know is I can only stare at her retreating form.

“Come on, silly.” She shakes her head. If I don’t move, she will just lock me up again until she thinks I’m ready, which could be anywhere from one hour to one year. It all depends on Valerie’s mood.

As if I needed another reminder of how unpredictable she is.

Using my arms, I shake as I stand. After the antibiotic, I lay there for a long time, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her words, “You are the perfect weight,” swirled through my head over and over. I’m not tall. The last time I was measured, I was at least over five feet. I’m sure I’ve grown some since then, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to be able to feel my ribs or my butt bone.

She’s purposely keeping me weak.

The cold floor sends chills through my bare feet, each step a painful reminder of how frail I’ve become. The air is stale, carrying the faint scent of mold and disinfectant, mixed with something sickeningly sweet — Valerie’s perfume. It takes all my might to walk toward her with my head up. My legs shake and burn, threatening to give out, but somehow, I make it to her.

“Follow me,” she chirps, taking off down the hall in the opposite direction of the doctor’s office. The hallway is dimly lit, the walls a dull, lifeless gray that mirror my own existence. My fingers brush against the rough texture of the wall, grounding me as I force one foot in front of the other.

Just keep moving. Don’t give her a reason.

My feet drag on the carpet, the fibers rough against my bare soles, and I grip the railing as I follow her down a ridiculous staircase. Each step takes effort, my legs trembling with the strain. It’s the first time I’ve seen the house, though I’m not even really seeing it because all my attention is just on walking. The staircase spirals down, the banister cool and smooth under my clammy palm. The walls are adorned with gaudy paintings and gold-trimmed mirrors, reflecting distorted images of my haggard form.

When we reach the bottom, Valerie directs me to the left through an archway, the heavy wooden doors propped open. As I step through, she kicks the props out of the way, the thud of the doors closing echoing in the cavernous space. She leads me to a chair on the right side of the large, open room. I slump into it, the hard surface unforgiving against my bony frame. It isn’t until I plop down that I look around, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

There are others, all thin, gaunt, and clearly malnourished. Their eyes are hollow. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize I must look just like them. The room smells of sweat and despair, a thick, suffocating scent that clings to my nostrils.

We’re all just ghosts waiting to fade away.

A tall man walks in, wearing a suit. His predatory smile is all teeth, and it sends a chill down my spine. His dark hair is styled without a strand out of place. The click of his expensive shoes on the hardwood floor echoes in the silent room, each step a countdown to something terrible.

“My darlings,” he coos at us, his voice dripping with false affection.

I watch as Valerie takes a seat in the corner of the room, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She looks… drugged, her usual sharpness dulled. It’s unnerving seeing her like this. The sharp scent of alcohol wafts from her direction, mingling with the stale air.

Even monsters have their weaknesses, I suppose.

“Now, today you’ll learn to dance.” Not one of us says anything. We’re all too terrified and beaten down to question him, even though I’m positive we are all dying to know what the hell he means by dance. He walks over to a stripper pole, his long fingers gripping it as he swirls around with a cruel smile. The metal gleams dully in the low light, a silent promise of degradation. “Not the pole, you are all far too weak for that today.”

My eyes shift to Valerie, who seems completely detached from the situation. Her gaze is distant and unfocused, as if she’s in another world. The contrast between her current state and her usual domineering presence is jarring.

“Today, we will use this,” he continues, and I realize I missed him walking over to grab a simple high-backed chair. He places it in the middle of the room. Sitting down, he spreads his legs, his cruel eyes roving over us as his smile falls. “The first one to make me come gets a loaf of bread.”

My heart plummets, and the weight of his words crushes the air from my lungs. I stare at him in disbelief as the room seems to tilt around me. My mouth goes dry, my palms slick with cold sweat, and a suffocating sense of dread settles over me like a shroud. Panic claws at the edges of my mind, screaming that this can’t be real, that this can’t be happening, but the empty, hollow eyes of the other girls tell me otherwise.

This is my reality. This is our hell.

The dozen of us starved girls do everything we can, and when I say everything, I mean it. The room fills with the sounds of desperation as girls try to survive in the only way we’ve been taught. The man’s laughter echoes in my ears, a haunting reminder of the nightmare I’m living.

The humiliation, shame, and sheer horror of the situation presses down on me like a physical weight. I feel my soul withering, piece by piece, as I watch the grotesque spectacle unfold. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Survive now. Feel later.

The scent of desperation fills the room, mingling with sweat and fear. The man’s voice is a constant presence, urging us on and mocking our pain. Every movement and sound is an assault on my senses, a relentless barrage that leaves me feeling numb and raw all at once.

Through it all, Valerie sits in the corner, her eyes vacant and mind elsewhere. Her presence is a twisted comfort, a reminder that I’m not alone in this hell, but it also fills me with a burning desire to make her pay for every moment of suffering she’s inflicted on me.

I will survive this and find a way out, and when I do, I will make them all pay.

One day, they’ll regret ever laying eyes on me.

I wake with a start, gasping for breath and rolling to the side to curl up on myself. My breathing turns irregular, and my heart stops before starting again. The panic of that day doesn’t just feel real, it surges to the surface until I feel everything I couldn’t feel in that moment—shame, resentment, and survival.

I fucking survived. I am a survivor.

I still can’t control the sob that rips from my chest. I bite down on my knuckle, my eyes wide and almost unseeing as I stare at a dark corner of the room. The cold air of the night presses against my skin, making the beads of sweat on my forehead feel like ice. It’s still dark. I have probably only been asleep for half an hour.

I’m so tired.

Exhaustion is my constant companion these days.

I fight to rein in my emotions and shove them back down where they belong, but it’s a losing battle. The memories of that day, the humiliation, the fear—it’s all too much. I’ve spent years trying to bury it and pretend it never happened, but that’s the thing about trauma—it doesn’t stay buried. It lurks, waiting for the moment when you’re at your weakest to strike, and when it does, it’s like drowning all over again.

I’m desperate for some sense of control, but the tears come anyway. They burn hot against my cheeks, a bitter reminder of everything I’ve endured and tried so hard to forget. I’m a survivor, damn it, but tonight, I feel anything but strong.

The shadows seem to cling to him, reluctant to let go, as if he’s part of their world. His eyes, dark and intense, find mine in the gloom. There’s something otherworldly about him, a power that radiates from his very being. This reminder of how little I truly know about him and his abilities should terrify me, but instead, it offers a strange sense of comfort. If he can command the shadows, then maybe he can keep my nightmares at bay.

I can’t tell if I’m happy, sad, disturbed, or any of the above. They are no longer hiding anything from me, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him. I also don’t snap at him and tell him to fuck off. No, the stupid girl inside me wants him to chase away the nightmare and memories.

Holding a finger to his lips, he steps close before crouching down so we are eye level. His dark eyes look almost black in the night as they hold mine. His presence feels like an anchor, grounding me in the here and now and not in the past.

“Scoot over,” he whispers, his voice soft but firm.

“Why?” I wheeze, my throat raw and dry. My mind races, trying to piece together why he’s here and how he knew I needed someone. Is this another betrayal in the making?

“Because I can’t stand to see you hurting,” he grinds out, his usually soft voice laced with an intensity that catches me off guard. There’s a fire in his eyes that both comforts and unnerves me. It’s as if the shadows around him darken, responding to his emotions.

“Have you been there the whole time?” I ask as I scoot over, because my entire world is crumbling around me, and I want some comfort. My body moves almost of its own accord, seeking the warmth and safety he seems to offer.

“I promised to always watch you,” Matteo murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He settles onto the bed, kicking off his shoes with a soft thud. As he leans back against the pillows, I catch a whiff of his familiar cinnamon scent. It hits me like a punch to the gut—a bittersweet reminder of simpler times. I want to hate how comforting it is, but my traitorous body relaxes despite itself. Matteo stretches out beside me, his presence both reassuring and unsettling. “And I do,” he adds, his dark eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“So you just casually hang out in the shadows,” I say, my tone both sarcastic and genuinely curious. His presence is somehow helping to ground me and keep me from falling back into the pit of despair. I can’t help but wonder what other secrets he’s keeping and what other abilities he might have.

Just another day in my bizarre life.

“I do. My mother used to tell me that a nightmare is our subconscious attempting to assist us in our waking life.” He glances down at me. His once shaved head is now a stylish cut that stands out against his brown skin. “Tell me about the dream.” He doesn’t ask, he demands as though he can kill off those in my nightmare.

Joke’s on him, they are all very much alive.

I swallow and almost look away, but instead, I crawl over to him and lay my head in the crook of his arm. “The last time I lay with a man like this, I killed him.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, a dark confession in the quiet night.

I don’t know why I say the words. Fuck, I don’t know why I even open up, but I did, and he doesn’t say anything. His breathing and heartbeat are steady, creating a rhythmic lullaby in the silent room.

“I’m still mad at you,” I whisper, my voice trembling with residual fear and anger. The words hang between us, a reminder of all that’s happened.

“Good,” he says, his tone calm and accepting. “Now, did he deserve it?”

My eyes unfocus as I go back to that day. Yeah, he fucking deserved it, but he isn’t the reason for the nightmare, although he is the reason for other nightmares. The memories swirl in my mind, a kaleidoscope of pain and survival.

Some ghosts refuse to stay buried.

Matteo hums. “He deserved it. Is he the reason your sleep is haunted?”

That’s one way of putting it.

“No,” I whisper. “Did you know about Valerie?” I ask him, my voice barely more than a breath. The question feels like a test, a way to gauge how much I can trust him.

“I knew about Valerie,” he answers, and I feel panic rush through me. “However, I did not know what she did. I only know she took you. That’s all,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and placing it over his heart. “Feel my truth.”

I don’t know what he means by that, but his heart beats steadily under my palm. I grip his shirt in my hands, wanting so much to believe him. I need to believe him, because I need this stolen moment like I need air to breathe.

Trust is a luxury I can’t afford, and yet here I am.

The warmth of his body seeps into mine, the steady rhythm of his heart grounding me. The darkness of the room feels less oppressive with him here, and I find myself slowly relaxing, my muscles unclenching for the first time in what feels like forever. I close my eyes, letting his presence soothe the raw edges of my mind.

Matteo’s fingers glide through my hair in a steady, soothing rhythm that calms the storm raging inside me. “Know this, my gem,” he murmurs, his voice like a balm to my shattered nerves. “I will incinerate anyone who dares to harm you. No one will ever touch you without your permission again—not while I’m here.”

There’s a fierce protectiveness in his words, an unwavering determination that makes my breath catch. I nod against his chest, a tear slipping free despite my efforts. His hand doesn’t stop its gentle motion, lulling me into a state of calm I haven’t felt in years. I allow myself to trust him, to believe in his promise, and for the first time, I feel a sliver of hope that maybe I can find peace again.

Hope is a dangerous thing, but I can’t help but cling to it.

“Well, will you tell me about the dream?” Matteo’s voice is soft, returning to its usual gentle tone. He’s always so soft spoken, and yet, like that one day in the hall, also quick to defend me.

“It was my first dance class,” I whisper, my voice trembling with the weight of the memories. The words feel like shards of glass in my throat, but I force them out.

“I’m guessing not a childhood dance class.” His tone is carefully neutral, but I can sense the underlying tension and barely contained anger on my behalf.

“No.” I shake my head against his chest and grip his shirt tighter, feeling the warmth of his body seep into my cold fingers. “I don’t know why I can’t stop the nightmares anymore. I don’t know why, after all this time, they won’t die.” The words rush out of me, carrying the weight of my anguish. “Valerie had this man. He’d come teach us how to dance for men and seduce them. The first class was when we’d all been there for over a year. We were exhausted, malnourished, and dying—actively dying.”

Matteo wraps his arms around me, holding me tight as though he needs the assurance for himself. The scent of his cinnamon cologne is calming, grounding me in the present moment.

“He told us all that the first girl to make him come would win a loaf of bread.” The words fall from my lips like I’m pouring Legos from a tub. It’s loud, crackly, and not at all pretty.

The things we did to survive…

Matteo’s arms tighten even more, his breath hot against my hair. I can feel the tension in his body, the barely contained rage at what was done to me.

“I watched the first woman volunteer. She was so thin, and I remember wondering if I looked like that. I did, by the way.” I still haven’t completely recovered. My ribs are still too prominent, and my muscles are too weak. “She didn’t know what she was doing. None of us did, but we were so hungry. She danced, and within two minutes, he had his belt off, and we all heard the crack against her flesh.”

I swallow hard, the sound of the belt still echoing in my ears.

“She passed out after the fifth lash,” I whisper, trying to hold my emotions in, which I know is the reason I keep having these nightmares. “One by one, we all tried.”

“Did you?” Matteo’s voice is tight with barely restrained anger, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor. His fingers twitch against my skin, as if he’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists, and the shadows in the room seem to deepen, responding to his emotions.

I nod, the movement small and defeated. “Driven by hunger and desperation, I looked like a twig trying to do the limbo. Five lashings,” I whisper. The memory of the pain, both physical and emotional, threatens to overwhelm me, but I push forward, forcing the words out. “When it was all over, he promised when he was done with us, we’d know how to make a man come without ever touching him.” I say the last part with a type of detachment, the horror of it all too much to fully process.

You never forget some lessons, no matter how much you want to .

Matteo kisses the top of my head, his lips warm and gentle. “I didn’t know.” His voice is thick with emotion, a mixture of sorrow and rage that I can feel reverberating through his chest.

“But you knew she had me,” I accuse, pain rippling through me like a physical blow. The words come out sharper than I intended, but I can’t bring myself to soften them.

“I knew.” His admission is quiet, but it holds the weight of a thousand unspoken truths.

“I don’t understand,” I burst out, sitting up to look at him, tears streaming down my face. The darkness of the room seems to press in on us, making the space feel smaller, more suffocating. “I just don’t understand.” My voice cracks, and the emotions I’ve been holding back threaten to spill over.

Matteo sighs, a sound heavy with regret and something else I can’t quite place. His hand finds mine in the darkness, his touch gentle but firm. “We came to find you,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “Not me, our guardians. We know there are shadow shifters out there who were stolen and hidden. You were one of them.”

The revelation hits me like a physical blow. Shadow shifters. Stolen. Hidden. Each word carries the weight of a life I never knew I had, a history I can’t remember. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. My mind races, trying to piece together this new information with everything I thought I knew about myself.

“Shadow… shifters?” The words feel alien in my mouth. My mind reels, grasping for understanding. “What—” I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “What does that even mean?”

Matteo’s grip tightens on my hand. “It means you’re special, Frankie. It means you have abilities you haven’t even begun to discover. The shadows… they are a part of you, just as they are a part of me.”

As if in response to his words, the shadows in the room seem to dance, reaching toward us before retreating. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once.

“I can’t handle any more secrets tonight,” I whisper into the dark space between us. He just insinuated I was stolen, and that means my entire life has just been one casualty and kidnapping after another. The realization is almost too much to bear.

How many times can a person be broken before they can’t be put back together?

“Do you want to know how we found out about Valerie?” he asks, his voice a gentle murmur. Even in the darkness, I can feel the intensity of his gaze.

“No,” I say, remaining frozen on his chest. My fingers clutch his shirt like a lifeline. The fabric is soft and worn, providing a stark contrast to the harshness of the truths he’s revealing.

“When you popped back up on our radar, our guardians rushed to make sure you had your invite to SLU to bring you home,” he says. “She was stalking you.”

Fear crashes through my system, bitter and unyielding. The thought of Valerie still being out there, still watching me, is terrifying. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I’m back in that room, helpless and afraid.

Just when I thought I was free…

“Is she…” My voice trembles, and the question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. I hold my breath, both dreading and needing his answer in equal measure.

“No,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. The single word is a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of panic. “That’s enough for now. Will you accept my comfort? Sleep, and I shall chase away all your nightmares.”

The offer is so tempting. I want to say no. I want to push him away and protect myself from more hurt, but exhaustion weighs heavily on me, and the promise of safety, even if it’s temporary, is too alluring to resist.

I nod because I’m fucking weak. I lie back down, knowing everything is complicated and he probably won’t be here in the morning.

That’s okay.

I don’t know if I will be here either.

Survival means always being ready to run.

As I close my eyes, I feel Matteo’s arms tighten around me, his presence a silent promise that, at least for tonight, I am not alone. In that small comfort, I find a semblance of peace amidst the chaos of my mind.

The room around us settles into a hushed quiet, broken only by the soft sounds of our breathing, and the sheets beneath me are cool and smooth. In the darkness, I can only make out the vague shapes of furniture—a dresser, a chair, the outline of a window with curtains gently swaying in the night breeze.

As sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, my senses seem to sharpen. Matteo’s arm drapes across my waist, heavy and warm. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my back should be soothing, but it sets my nerves on edge. I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch, each a potential threat or comfort—I’m not sure which anymore.

The pillow smells of generic laundry detergent, a scent that should be neutral but now feels cloying. It mingles with Matteo’s cinnamon cologne, creating a blend that’s oddly comforting yet makes my stomach churn. My mind races, trying to reconcile the comfort I feel with the danger I know lurks in trust.

A car passes outside, its headlights briefly illuminating the room. The shadows dance across the walls, and for a heart-stopping moment, I swear I see a figure standing in the corner. I blink, and it’s gone. It’s just my imagination, right?

Matteo shifts slightly, his breath warm against my neck. I tense, waiting for… something. An attack? A revelation? Nothing comes except the maddening tick of a distant clock and the wild pounding of my own heart.

It’s strange how comfort can feel so foreign yet so necessary, and how necessity can feel like a trap.

Just before I drift off completely, a fleeting thought crosses my mind—am I dreaming this? Is Matteo really here, or is this just another trick of my traumatized brain?

Then he shifts slightly, his breath warm against the nape of my neck, and I know this is real. For better or worse, this moment is real.

As consciousness fades, I make a silent promise to myself. Tomorrow, I’ll start demanding answers. I’ll confront the truth about who I am, and this world of shadow shifters I’ve been thrust into. For now, though, I’ll allow myself this brief respite from the storm of my life.

The last thing I’m aware of before sleep takes me is the gentle thrum of Matteo’s heartbeat, steady and strong, that seems to whisper, “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

For the first time in years, I believe it.

Tomorrow may bring chaos, but tonight, I’ll cling to this peace. As I drift off, I can’t help but wonder what other secrets lie hidden in the shadows, waiting to be revealed. What other parts of myself have I yet to discover?

The questions swirl in my mind, but for now, they are muted by the comfort of Matteo’s presence. In this moment, I’m not a survivor, a victim, or a shadow shifter—I’m just Frankie finding solace in the arms of someone who seems to genuinely care.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

As I finally drift off, teetering on the edge of sleep, a sound cuts through the silence—a soft tap at the window. My eyes snap open, my heart racing. There, silhouetted against the moonlight, is a familiar figure—a figure I hoped never to see again.

Valerie.

Her lips curve into that sickly sweet smile I know all too well as she raises a finger to her lips.

“Shh, little shadow,” she whispers, her voice carrying through the glass. “It’s time to come home.”