TWENTY - EIGHT

CARA's POV

The first thing I felt was the cold.

It seeped through the floor, up my back, into my bones like ice water. My head throbbed, each pulse sharp and angry at the base of my skull. My wrists were tied—ropes, rough and tight, cutting into my skin every time I shifted.

I blinked against the dim light, the bare bulb overhead swinging slightly on a chain, casting long, distorted shadows along the cracked cement walls.

The smell hit me next—rust, damp concrete, and something metallic.

Blood.

Not a lot. Just enough to make my stomach churn.

Voices murmured in the distance. Male. Low and harsh. They echoed off the walls, making it impossible to tell how many there were.

I turned my head slowly.

Three of them.

Men in sweat-stained tank tops, combat boots, arms roped with muscle and something darker—something coiled and ready to strike. One leaned against the far wall smoking, another sat on an overturned crate playing with a pocketknife.

And the third paced.

He was the only one who no