Reclamation, page 5
I closed my eyes.
Please.
The word didn’t even reach my lips at first.
Then, barely louder than a breath, I whispered, “Please, God. Just let me get out.”
The words felt like they were falling into a pit—no echo, no return.
I tried again. “Or give me the strength to stay myself.”
My voice cracked at the end.
Nothing answered.
No warmth. No light. No sense that anything sacred was listening. I waited, just in case… for a flicker of peace, or the familiar weight of comfort I used to find when I prayed as a girl.
But it never came.
I opened my eyes and stared at the wall. It didn’t look any different than it had before. I didn’t feel different either. Just… emptier.
Like something inside me had been peeled back, and all I had left was the hollow.
I started humming—quiet and unsure—an old hymn I hadn’t thought about in years. One my mother used to sing when things felt tight and unkind.
“I once was lost, but now am found…”
But even the melody felt distant. Unsteady. Like I was borrowing strength from a voice that wasn’t mine anymore.
I stopped. The silence swallowed it whole.
And then I felt it—that slip of doubt sliding into my thoughts like a shadow I hadn’t noticed at first.
Was anyone even listening?
I wanted to believe it. I needed to.
But all I felt was the cold. The ache in my knees. The sting in my eyes that I refused to let fall.
I stayed there for a long time, barely breathing. Not because I didn’t want to move—but because I wasn’t sure I could.
Because I wasn’t sure that faith was still enough.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and deep, though every inhale tasted like him—clove and smoke, iron and something sweeter, rotting underneath.
The air still carried Magnus Rex’s presence like perfume left too long on silk.
I moved from the floor to the edge of the bed, careful not to sink too deep into the mattress. It was too plush, too perfect—like everything else in this place. His bedroom wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a stage dressed in velvet and gold, and I was the unwilling star of tonight’s performance.
The walls were painted in a deep crimson, so dark they looked black in the dim light. Gold trim lined the edges, glinting softly like it was proud of itself. Heavy velvet drapes hung over tall windows I couldn’t see through. I didn’t need to. I already knew what they looked out on.
Power. Chaos. Everything he fed off.
The bed rose like a monument in the center of the room—massive, with four carved posts that reached up into the dark like pillars in some forgotten temple. The silk sheets were smooth and tucked tight, untouched, but that was a lie. He wasn’t the kind of man who left things untouched.
He liked to leave fingerprints on souls.
I slid my fingers over the sheets, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to feel something solid. Something I could trace and control. The softness beneath my hands was unreal—like it wasn’t meant for skin, but for display.
Beside the bed sat a nightstand carved from rich, dark wood. The gold filigree caught the light and twisted it into strange patterns, like it was trying to whisper secrets. On top sat a collection of objects that felt… curated.
Polished stones, their surfaces shimmering with colors that shifted when I blinked.
Tiny glass vials filled with thick, dark liquid that moved too slowly.
I picked one up, just to feel the weight of it in my hand. It was cool, heavier than it looked. My thumb ran over the smooth surface, and a chill crept up my spine. Power. This was something he used. Or kept, because it mattered.
I set it down like it might bite.
Across the room, a tall mirror loomed like it was waiting for me to look too long. I met my own reflection—barely.
My face was bruised, lips cracked, eyes ringed in shadow.
Behind me, the room sparkled like it belonged to royalty. In front of me, I looked like someone who’d been dragged through hell. The contrast made my stomach twist.
A dressing table sat below the mirror, lined with bottles and brushes arranged in perfect, pristine rows. There was a brush for every hair type. Lip colors in pale pinks and cruel reds. Powder that shimmered like frost.
I didn’t touch any of it.
I knew what it was for. What I was meant to become.
Beautiful.
Profitable.
No.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms.
Beauty wasn’t my weapon. Not anymore.
I stood slowly, letting my breath even out, feeling something new settle in my bones. Not peace. Not hope.
Purpose.
I scanned the room again, looking for anything useful. A weakness. A crack in the paint. A thread I could pull.
I scanned the room again, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to break free of the cage holding it in.
The corners were swallowed in shadow, heavy and unmoving—but it wasn’t the dark that caught my eye.
It was the gleam of metal.
Tucked low on the far wall, nearly hidden behind the edge of a dresser, was a vent. Narrow. Old. Just big enough for someone small to squeeze through—if they were desperate enough.
And I was.
A flicker of hope sparked in my chest so fast it almost hurt.
I moved slowly, careful not to let the floor creak beneath me. Every step was deliberate, my breath shallow. The vent cover was slightly crooked, like it had been forced open once before and never quite put back right. My fingers brushed the edge. The screws were loose. The metal gave a little under pressure.
If I could pry it off…
But first—I had to listen.
I pressed my ear to the cold wall, steadying my breath as I let the silence settle around me. Faint footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the door. Guards. Two of them, by the rhythm. They passed in fifteen-minute intervals, give or take, always laughing at something cruel, always too loud to notice much else.
I’d been listening for days. Mapping their routine in my head.
And then there were them—his wives.
Their voices drifted through the halls like perfume, light and venomous. Laughter. Footsteps in heels. The scrape of a wine glass across marble.
They didn’t think of me as a threat.
They thought of me as nothing at all.
I pulled away from the wall and crawled back to the bed. My eyes swept beneath the frame and caught it—a splintered piece of wood. Jagged on one end. Sturdy enough to wedge into the vent and maybe get it loose without too much noise.
I wrapped my fingers around it.
It felt small in my hand. But it felt like something.
The plan formed fast and clear, cutting through the haze that had been sitting heavy in my head for days: wait for the next pass. Count the laughter. Wait for silence. And then—move. Fast. Quiet. Gone.
It was reckless. Dangerous. Probably foolish.
But I couldn’t care.
This wasn’t just about getting out. It wasn’t just survival.
This was about taking something back.
I wedged the edge of the wood into the vent cover, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely hold it steady. The metal groaned in protest, sharp against my palms as I pried it free. One corner snapped loose, and I pulled harder, not caring when the edge bit into my skin.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except that opening.
A flicker of pain shot up my arm when my dress caught on a rusted nail. The fabric tore down the side, splitting with a harsh rip that echoed too loud in my ears—but I didn’t stop. I barely noticed it.
All I heard was the silence.
And it was calling me forward.
I slipped inside the shaft, the cold metal pressing against my skin, and began to crawl. My knees scraped. My ribs ached. My breath came fast and shallow. The air was thick—stale and metallic, like the inside of a sealed tomb—but I forced myself to keep moving.
Every inch forward felt like a tiny victory carved out of steel and desperation.
Magnus didn’t exist here. Not his hands. Not his voice. Not his cruelty.
He couldn’t reach me in this narrow space.
I pushed him out of my thoughts and focused on the movement—left elbow, right knee, inch by inch. I imagined what it would feel like to breathe real air again, to see sky. Walton’s face flashed in my mind, not like a dream, but like a promise.
I’ll find him, I whispered to myself. I have to.
Somewhere deep inside this compound of velvet and rot, he had to be getting closer.
I paused at a junction, heart hammering. A second door waited ahead, rusted hinges barely clinging to the frame. It looked old. Forgotten. The kind of thing no one thought to check.
My pulse spiked.
This was it. It had to be.
I crawled closer, feeling the fabric of my gown snag again, this time across my shoulder. The tear widened, but I kept going. My sleeve ripped open along my arm, and I hissed when something sharp sliced across my skin—but I didn’t stop.
Keep going.
My hands gripped the frame. The door creaked under the pressure, but didn’t jam. It moved—slow, reluctant.
And then it gave.
Beyond the vent, the world opened just enough to show a hallway—dimly lit, quiet; the shadows stretching out like they were waiting for me.
I froze, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Just the hush of still air and the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears.
Freedom felt close enough to taste.
Or maybe something worse waited out there.
But I didn’t care.
Because if there was even a chance I could make it out… if there was even a chance Walton was near…
I’d take the risk.
I’d walk through fire before I let Magnus Rex keep me another second.
The door creaked open, loud enough to make my heart seize.
But I didn’t even have time to breathe.
A hand snapped around my wrist—tight, unforgiving. Like iron.
Magnus.
The blood drained from my face as he yanked me backward; the vent slipping from my grasp, freedom vanishing in a heartbeat. His grip was brutal. Bruising. The scent of smoke and something bitter filled my lungs as he hauled me into the room like I weighed nothing.
The door slammed shut behind us, locking again with a click that echoed through my bones.
This time, it felt smaller.
Tighter.
Like the walls themselves had been waiting for me to fail.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stared at me with those cold, hollow eyes, like he was delighted I’d given him a reason to stop pretending.
“No ceremony,” he spat. The words were sharp. Ugly. “No threats.”
Just rage.
He struck me before I could move.
The slap cracked across my face with a sting that lit up my skull. I hit the ground hard, the world tilting sideways as I scrambled to catch my breath.
Then his boot slammed into my ribs.
The pain lit me up from the inside, sharp and blinding. I curled into myself, gasping, choking on the air I couldn’t pull in fast enough. I’d forgotten how much it could hurt—how quickly someone could remind you that your body wasn’t yours.
But he wasn’t done.
“Thought you were smart,” he hissed, pacing now, his voice low and slick with venom. “Thought you were strong.”
Another blow—his hand this time—backhanded me across the face. My vision blurred. My body slammed into the wall, the sound a dull, sickening thud that echoed in my ears.
Everything spun.
Blood coated the inside of my mouth, copper and hot.
I tasted it, and I knew—this was real. This was happening.
Still, I blinked through the blur. Forced myself to focus. I wouldn’t let him win—not completely.
“Look at you now.” Magnus sneered, voice thick with cruelty. He took slow, measured steps toward me, like a predator savoring the last few seconds of a chase. “Just a little girl playing tough.”
His laughter rang in my ears. Mocking. Icy.
But I wouldn’t cry.
Even as I shook. Even as my limbs screamed and every breath rattled like glass inside my chest—I wouldn’t give him that.
I pushed against the wall, tried to stand. My legs barely held, but I stood.
Even if it broke every part of me first.
I collapsed to my knees, breath torn from my lungs, every bone screaming as the world spun around me.
Blood dripped from my mouth—warm, metallic, and thick against my tongue. It trailed down my chin in slow rivulets, staining the pale skin of my chest where my dress had torn. My arms trembled beneath me, barely able to hold me upright.
I lifted my head.
He leaned down, hands on his knees. "Well?" he asked. "Got any-fucking-thing to say?"
My hair hung in my face like a curtain, shielding me from the full weight of his gaze—but not enough. I felt him watching. Felt the cruel smile curling on his lips, the satisfaction radiating off him like heat from fire.
I drew in a shaky breath, lifted my chin just enough—and spat.
Blood, thick and hot, hit his cheek with a satisfying smack.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped.
Magnus froze. His face went slack with shock, then shifted—slowly—into something darker. A grin stretched across his face, too wide, too pleased.
“Finally decided to fight back?” he murmured, voice almost gentle, as if this were a game we were both enjoying.
He leaned in close, and I could smell the minty rot on his breath.
Then his tongue dragged across my cheek—my blood—and I couldn’t stop the shudder that ripped through me. Not from fear.
From rage.
“Finally decided I’m going to keep you,” he whispered, like it was some kind of gift. “I can’t fucking wait to break you slowly.”
The words hit harder than his fists had, and still—I didn’t flinch.
He shoved me back down like I was nothing, my body folding awkwardly as pain exploded across my ribs.
Another kick. Harder this time.
I gasped, but I didn’t cry out.
He straightened, stepped back. Didn’t even look at me again as he turned and walked toward the door. Just left me there—bleeding, shaking, surrounded by silk sheets and too much gold.
The lock clicked behind him.
Silence returned like a shroud, thick and suffocating.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
But my eyes stayed open.
My breath came shallow and ragged. My body screamed.
Maybe I whispered the hymn. Maybe I didn’t. I didn’t remember.
But the words echoed somewhere deep inside me, soft and steady—not belief this time, but defiance. A memory clung to bone.
And I thought of Walton.
Of the way he’d said my name like it was something holy.
Of the way I refused to give up on him.
And now?
I wouldn’t let him give up on me.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Chapter 6
Walton
The dark wrapped around me like it had been waiting.
I crouched low behind what was left of an old factory wall—cracked concrete and rusted rebar, crumbling like the bones of a world long dead. The air stank of metal and mold and old despair. Fitting, really. Seemed like everywhere I went smelled like grief these days.
I unfolded the map in my lap—stitched together from whispers, broken bribes, and blood-soaked leads. The ink was smudged; the paper torn at the edges, but I could still make out the route. Just enough light from my lantern to read by, just enough rage to keep my hands steady.
Magnus moved his high-value stock in the dark.
Always night runs. Always under shadow.
Cowards like him liked to pretend daylight made ‘em vulnerable. But they didn’t realize the real monsters waited out here in the dark.
This latest run was flagged as “VIP.” That meant a convoy. Extra protection. Likely a higher price tag.
And it meant I was close.
Real close.
I traced a finger along the route. They’d have to take the outer roads—twisting paths through the Forsaken outskirts—before hitting open ground. Which meant I had one shot. A window. And if she was in that truck…
I closed my fist around her ring, the silver cool against my skin.
Everly.
God.
Just thinking her name felt like bleeding from the inside. The pain was sharp. Alive.
“If she’s in that truck,” I muttered, glancing at Silence curled up beside me, her ears twitching, “they’re already late to Hell.”
I could still hear her sometimes—her voice floating up in the quiet spaces of my head.
“You’ll find me, Walton. I believe in you.”
She said it like it was a promise. Like she knew.
I wasn’t going to let her down again.
Out past the compound gates, figures shifted—guards getting into position, weapons slung low, helmets on. They moved like they owned the night. Like they didn’t know who was waiting just past the line where their lights faded.
But I saw them.
Watched ‘em like prey.
They had their scopes. Their rifles. Their routine.
But they didn’t have me.
And that’s where they’d already lost.
I slid deeper into the shadows, lettin’ my breath slow, lettin’ the adrenaline thread through my veins nice and clean. I went over the plan again in my head. Take out the scouts first. Quiet. Clean. Then rip through the convoy before they knew what hit ‘em.
Still… the doubt scratched at the back of my skull.
What if she wasn’t in there?
What if I tore through these bastards just to find more empty cages and another dead end?
I shoved the thought aside. That kind of thinking would kill me before the bullets did.
