LENA
I didn't know what time it was.
There were no windows. No sun. Just the faint trickle of water down stone, like the heartbeat of a dying place. My body hurt in ways I didn't have names for. The ache in my limbs pulsed dully, rhythmic and cruel, as if even pain had settled into routine. My stomach clenched with hunger, a twisting, gnawing void that made it hard to think. My lips were cracked. My skin was sticky with sweat and blood. My wrists had gone past burning—they were numb now, the iron digging so deep I wasn't sure where metal ended and flesh began.
I'd tried pulling against the chains once. Twice. A dozen times. All it had earned me were torn muscles and blood down my arms. My shoulder throbbed from where I'd landed in the first struggle — Marcus had laughed when he noticed the swelling. Said it made me look "delicate."
Delicate. As if anything about this felt soft.
And still—no rescue. No Dom.
