Chapter 12

Noah

Pain.

Excruciating pain shoots through every single fiber of my body with every movement of the man forcing himself on me. His hand on the back of my skull keeps my face buried in the cushion, silencing my desperate pleas, my cries for someone, anyone, to come and save me.

My shoulders strain from my hands being tied behind my back. The ropes holding my wrists together cut into my skin, preventing me from fighting back. Even though I gave up fighting a long time ago, it only makes things worse. It drags it out and excites the men to hurt me even more.

"You're doing great, Noah," my foster mother's supposedly friendly voice interrupts the man's grunts, which ripple through my body in wild, terrifying waves, drowning me in the depths of darkness. My stomach churns, nausea creeping up my throat, as the clear image of her sitting in her chair across the room, watching over me to make sure I don' t upset the man, flashes before my mind's eye.

The man is here once a week when his wife and daughter, who happens to be my classmate, are out of the house. He pays my foster mother a ton of money to act out his fantasies on a young boy.

But there is a problem: I'm growing out of it. I'm sixteen now, puberty is taking its toll and I'm turning into a man faster than they'd like and he's losing interest. That means my salvation is within reach, but my freedom means someone else's nightmare is creeping up on them, ready to drag them into the same hell I've been in for years.

Tears sting in the corners of my eyes, soaking into the soft surface of the pillow pressed against my face. My mouth is stuffed with the fabric, muffling the painful groans every time the man forces himself on me.

Even after all these years it still hurts. No matter how much I try to prepare, it's never enough and every time I'm left bruised and bleeding for days.

My eyes widen and my heartbeat quickens, panic surging through every cell of my body as the man's movements become frantic, knowing exactly what horror will follow as he pins me to the mattress…

I can't take this any longer.

My eyes flutter open and my heart races, pounding against my chest in a violent rhythm. My breaths come in ragged gasps, the taste of bile creeping up my throat, filling my mouth. Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck and my eyes dart around the dimly lit room. Oh God, thank you… I'm not a child anymore. I'm not with them anymore.

I take a deep, shaky breath and toss my head back. It's been years since I had my last nightmare about that time in my life. Years since I thought about it in a detailed way. This situation is messing with my head.

I've lost track of how many unconscious and conscious sessions, plagued by nightmares, I've gone through at this point, and even if I had been able to keep track, I have no idea how long I've been out. If it was enough for a full break or just a few short minutes. The room I'm in has no windows, which means I have no idea what time of the day it is outside my prison. My only source of keeping track of time is when the men responsible for my torture arrive and they seem to come at regular intervals. They bring food and water three times a day, but it's always the same meal, so there's no way to guess when I'm having breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

Sitting on the concrete floor with my back against the cold, damp wall and my shoulders slumped, I tip my head forward and look around the room. The floor is smeared with a thick mixture of my bodily fluids, including vomit and blood. With a heavy sigh, I throw my head back and hit the wall again. My focus lands on the spot of mold on the ceiling that has become my anchor point through torture sessions and all the countless sleepless hours.

Kyle—no, I fucked up. I should have been more involved with our client. I should have been more involved with our contact. I have always been wary of strangers in my business; that is why I killed everyone who dared to cross my path. But of course, the one time I trust someone because of a shared history, it ends up like this.

When I close my eyes again, images of Evelyn flash before my inner eye. My beautiful Dove. You were right. As always, you were right. How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed that something was fishy while she, without knowing anything about the job, had a bad feeling about the whole ordeal from the get go?

I raise my hand and run my fingers through the greasy strands of my hair. I miss her. I want to go home, make it up to her, show her that she was right and that I am an idiot. She must be going crazy worrying about me, or perhaps she is celebrating that she was right. No, I doubt it. I know her, my precious and soft Dove, so full of love. She is worried, probably angry too, fuming. When I get home, I will surely walk straight into a new nightmare. But this one will be without physical pain, this one will leave no scars.

The sound of dull footsteps hitting the concrete floor snaps me out of my thoughts and my attention shifts to the locked door. Someone is coming. From the sound of the footsteps and the absence of the usual chatter, it is only one person, which means it is time to eat. I've been waiting for this exact moment.

I rise to my feet and in about two long strides, reach the door, slipping into the shadows where it will swing open. I glance down at my left hand, which is blue and swollen. It throbs with a dull, persistent pain with every pulse of my heart. Besides that, I've lost all other feeling in it, but I'll make it work. The rope burn around my wrists is raw, with deep lines carved into the flesh and still slick with a faint sheen of blood—the result of frantic pulling against the restraints when I broke free.

Once the door swings open, I remain in my position, hidden in the darkness, waiting for the guy to walk by. He drops the bag of bread and the water bottle as soon as he doesn't spot me. Before he has a chance to call for help, I burst out of hiding, sling my left arm around his throat, and bring my right up to his face, digging my fingers into his eyes so hard they pop .

With a painful groan, the man pushes back, knocking me into the wall. I flinch, let go, put my hands on his shoulders and push him forward, tackling him to the ground. He struggles, but I have the upper hand. The adrenaline dulls the pain radiating from my left hand, and I wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze, crushing his Adam's apple under my palms. His hands snap to my arms, but I don't let go, squeezing harder and harder, his eyes bulging, the vein in his temple popping. The pulse under my fingertips slows until it fully stops, his limbs dropping to the floor.

It is only when I am sure that he is dead that I let go of him and settle down on his stomach with a heavy sigh. Step one is done.

I pat him down, looking for his gun, and find it in the waistband of his jeans. Idiots, they all are idiots and only strong because they are in a group. Glancing down at the pistol in my right hand, I wrap my fingers around the handle and put one on the trigger, ready to shoot. I'd prefer to use my left hand, my dominant one, but this will have to do for now.

I approach the door with slow steps, lean against the frame and peer out to see if anyone is there, but the hallway is completely empty. Pushing forward, I tiptoe to the next corner and back up against the wall before taking a peek. I have to find the exit. Quickly.

Just before the next turn, loud voices echo through the building, booming through the concrete building. I press my back against the wall, hiding out of sight. A quick glance around the corner reveals two men standing by a door leading to the outside. Looking past them, my eyes fall on the starry night sky. I pause for a moment as the breeze of fresh air wraps around me, allowing my lungs a break from the stench I've been breathing for days.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath. It's now or never. With a big step, I jump out of hiding, raise the pistol, and with perfect aim, shoot. The explosion thunders through the night as the first bullet pierces one of the men's skulls. Blood and brains splatter all over the other one standing next to him.

"Hey!" he yells and whirls around, launching himself in my direction. Pulling the trigger two more times, I fire at him, the bullets hitting his shoulder, and he stops in his tracks, staggering back. "You son of a bitch," he hisses through gritted teeth.

Fuck.

My eyes land on the door where two more men are now blocking my exit. I guess this is going to be more of a fight than I thought. I raise my left hand to the handle and wrap my fingers around my right hand for support, gripping the pistol tight.

Dove, I'm coming home.