Page 85 of Poisoned Promise
Time becomes impossible to track.
Sometimes I pass out from pain and wake up being doused in buckets of cold water.
Other times, exhaustion drags me into restless nightmares where all I dream about is Alex lost in the city and ending up dead to something he can’t protect himself from.
He’s smart.
He’s capable.
I spent years of his life teaching him how to survive on the streets under the guise that we were poor and could lose our house, just like how I taught him to drive in case of emergencies, or safe places to go in case we get separated.
All of it was to keep him alive.
But that’s my job.
I’m supposed to protect him and I can’t do that from a square, dark cell where guards come to work off some pent up frustration while waiting on Caterina.
Caterina Salamone.
For a long time, I wanted to sneak back here and kill her but the urge to end that monster’s life was never stronger than my urge to protect and care for my baby.
If I had, none of this would have happened.
Alex and I would still be living our quiet life, undisturbed and under everyone’s radar.
How stupid of me.
I’m lost in those thoughts when the door swings open for the umpteenth time and I grit my teeth, bracing myself for the next beating that’ll leave me unable to breathe properly.
Three men enter carrying a wooden bench and they set it down on one side of the room, then they swarm me with smirks.
It doesn’t take long for them to unlock the manacles around my wrists and ankles but I drop to the floor like a sack of cement, unable to keep myself up.
Pain radiates through my torso, swelling sharply in my stiff shoulders and I’m unable to hold back a sob as they drag me up and over to the horse.
“What are you doing?” I snarl, doing everything I can to twist out of their grips.
It’s useless.
I’m in pain, my lungs remain raw from smoke that lingers from the fire, and multiple beatings have made even the slightest movements painful.
“Relax,” one man snarls as they lift me and throw me over the wooden bench. “This isn’t for us.”
They secure me onto the bench face down with my arms and legs dangling down to the floor and locked into place with more cuffs.
They rattle slightly as I test their strength and then press my cheek flat to the bench, gazing blearily at all three of them retreating from my cell.
What the hell?
A moment later, heels clack on the stone floor and Caterina enters.
Her floor-length blue dress has been hitched up and gathered at her hips so the fabric doesn’t trail through the blood, sweat, and piss I’ve left on the floor.
Despite her age, she’s rather dainty as she steps from dry spot to dry spot until she’s near me.
“Dove Healy,” she says, spitting my name like a curse. “You should have stayed dead.”
“I tried,” I remark dryly. “Resurrection was never my thing.”
