Chapter 3

Ethan gets a call. Urgent cartel business. He has to leave the compound for the day.

He leaves me in Sabrina's care.

The moment his car is gone, Sabrina comes to my cell. The delicate, frightened facade is gone. Her eyes are cold, triumphant.

She kneels down in front of me, a smug smile on her face. Her own cheek, once swollen, is now perfectly fine, covered by a small, neat bandage.

"Disappointed?" she asks, her voice a silky whisper. "I applied a simple bacterial agent to the cut myself. Just enough to cause a nasty, temporary reaction. And the antidote? A little something to induce vomiting. You should be grateful. It makes your guilt so much more convincing."

I just stare at her, too weak to speak.

"I want you to die," she continues, her smile widening. "But not quickly. I want to watch you suffer. I want to watch Ethan destroy you piece by piece, all while thinking he' s protecting me. I want you to die knowing he hates you."

She stands up, dusting off her expensive dress. "He' ll be back soon. I have to go play the victim."

When Ethan returns that night, he finds Sabrina pale and "weak" in her bed. She whispers a suggestion to him, her voice full of false forgiveness.

"Make her stand guard," she says. "Outside our bedroom door. All night. As penance. So she can see what she tried to destroy."

Ethan agrees.

So I stand there, my body screaming in protest, the gash on my face throbbing, the poison in my veins a constant, dull roar. I watch the sliver of light under their door. I hear their muffled voices.

Hours later, the door creaks open. Ethan steps out. He thinks I' m asleep, propped against the wall.

He crouches down, his face close to mine. In the dim light, I can see the conflict in his eyes. The pain.

"If only that day never happened," he whispers, his voice thick with a sorrow I haven't heard in two years.

A single tear escapes his eye and falls onto my cheek. It feels like a brand.

He goes back inside. I stay there, barely conscious, my world shrinking to the pain and the approaching end.

Through the haze, I overhear two guards talking in low voices down the hall.

"The boss is really spoiling her," one says. "A new art installation for her garden? What the hell is that about?"

The other guard snorts. "You haven't heard the weird part. The artist she hired needs a special pigment. A unique red. He says it has to be made from fresh, young blood."

An icy dread, colder than any poison, grips me.