Chapter 3

TATE

I DIDN’T KNOW what day it was anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if days still mattered when every hour bled into the next, swallowed by this fucking gray nightmare. The light behind the curtains didn’t change. Just a dull, lifeless nothing that made time feel like a slow death.

My throat was so dry it burned, but I couldn’t even scream. My hands were raw, red and busted from yanking on the goddamn chains until I thought my skin would split open.

These cuffs? They weren’t just clamped on like some cheap bullshit. Nah. They were welded to the bed frame. Thick, cold, strong steel fused into the metal legs like they’d been built to hold a beast.

I sat on the edge of that shitty bed, eyes locked on my busted fists. My knuckles were cracked, skin torn where I’d slammed them against the walls. I tried every damn thing—pounding, twisting, cussing, praying—for a way out. But nothing.

Still here.

Still fucked.

Still trapped.

The door clicked open before I even noticed.

Movement caught the corner of my eye and I snapped my head up.

Enzo.

Tailored suit, black as sin, open collar showing just a hint of skin, sharp shoes silent against the floor. Not a hair out of place. Like he’d just walked off some business meeting, not the man who’d been holding me hostage in this godforsaken hole.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there and looked me up and down, like I was a problem he was trying to decide how to solve.

I kept my stare locked on him, swallowing the wild coil of fear twisting in my gut. Not a chance I was going to let him see me break.

“You know,” Enzo finally said, voice low and smooth but sharp as a blade, “your old man’s a fucking idiot.”

I blinked, trying to process. “What the fuck you mean?”

Enzo smirked, pulling a cracked phone from his pocket and tossing it onto the bed where it bounced near my leg. The screen lit up—a paused news clip with my face on it.

“Announcing your kidnapping on fucking national TV. Offering a reward like you’re some lost dog. Like he’s stupid enough not to know you’re right here.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t touch the phone. Just stared, dry-mouthed, muscles tight.

“Your dad’s screaming for you like he thinks that’ll save his ass,” Enzo spat. “Guess he forgot who he’s fucking dealing with.”

I could feel his stare digging in deeper as if trying to find something inside me to break.

“He wouldn’t do that.” I rasped. Because that was it. He wouldn’t. Not if he hard to save his own skin.

Enzo laughed, but there was no humor. “I told him to shut the fuck up and return what he stole.”

He took a step closer and the cold air between us got heavier.

“And instead,” he said, voice dropping low, “he made you a goddamn headline. How stupid does he think I am?”

I opened my mouth, ready to throw some shit back at him, but the rage in his eyes stopped me cold.

My glance flicked—just for a second—to the door.

It wasn’t shut.

Hadn’t been since he walked in.

Hung open just enough for the shadows in the hallway to taunt me. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. But my eyes kept darting back, like some part of me still believed in a chance. A window. A way out.

Before I could blink, Enzo grabbed my arm, yanking me hard and slamming me flat against the bed.

The cuffs tore into my skin, metal biting bone, and I hissed through my teeth as his weight crushed down on me like I was nothing but trash to be held down.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he growled, breath hot against my cheek. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I wanted to spit in his face. Throw a punch. Fucking anything. But my body was locked, tensed and wired, high on fear and adrenaline.

Still, I tried.

I swung—wild and sloppy—but I swung. Just one shot, something to prove I still had fight.

He caught it like it was nothing.

And then I was done.

Enzo slammed me harder into the mattress, the impact stealing the air from my lungs. His hand shoved my face down, palm bruising my cheek, and all I could hear was the frantic rush of my own heartbeat and the cuffs rattling with every failed attempt to move.

I thought I was gonna fucking die. Right there.

Every breath burned.

Every nerve screamed.

His voice dropped to a low growl, brushing the shell of my ear like it belonged there. “You think you can leave? You’re in my house now.”

And then—click.

The door creaked open again.

I barely registered movement before I saw him.

A guy, maybe my age, stepping inside. Black curls streaked with bright green like a damn riot against the dull walls. Eyes wide and round, like he was taking me in for the first time, like I was something shiny and new.

His smile was sharp and unapologetic, like he didn’t care about the chains biting into my ankle or the hell I was stuck in.

And holy shit—my dick twitched.

Even now.

Even here.

With me pinned under a man that could kill me.

“You’re the Tate?” he asked, voice light but sharp, like he was sizing me up as something new and exciting.

Enzo’s grip tightened for a second, then he snarled. “Eli,” he growled. Growled. His voice a low, dangerous rumble that shook the room.

That name hit me like a punch to the gut.

Eli jerked back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to be here.

Buzzcut guy—the one I had seen the first time—appeared behind him, grabbing his arm. “Told you, he’d be pissed.”

“I was just checking,” Eli said, eyes still fixed on me like I was the prize.

“Get the fuck out,” Enzo barked but Eli didn’t move. Not until he threw me one last look—slow, knowing, flirty as hell.

Then he sighed, like this was a damn game to him, and let the buzzcut drag him away.

The door slammed shut behind them and my heart hammered.

For the first time in days, my hands shook—not from fear, but from hope.

Eli looked like trouble. Like the kind of guy who’d stir shit just for the hell of it.

And maybe? Just maybe?

He was my goddamn ticket out.