Page 4 of Dark Bonds

I cough and roll to the side. I allow the lung spasm to do its thing, bringing up whatever bullshit I’ve been breathing in this room. My bet is on the mold. The taste is bitter, making me gag.

Valerie unlocks my cuffs, freeing my wrists for the first time in… I can’t remember how long. My arms feel like lead, useless at my sides. With deceptive gentleness, she applies a cool ointment to my raw, chafed skin. The relief is immediate, maddening in its contrast to my constant discomfort.

The medicinal scent mingles with the room’s persistent mildew odor, creating a bizarrely nostalgic aroma that evokes moments of false hope. I want to recoil from her touch, butmy traitorous body leans in, craving even this twisted form of comfort.

“This will help heal the chafing,” Valerie murmurs, her fingers light as she works the ointment into my skin. The scent of antiseptic rises, a clinical note in our toxic dance of captor and captive.

It actually feels amazing, but I won’t thank her. I’ll never thank her. She can pry those words out of my ghost, because when I die, and it’s starting to look like I might, then I will either haunt her, kill her, or make her suffer. The thoughts swirl in a frenzied tornado of hate and pain. All I know is she’ll pay. Somehow.

“Come on, Frankie. We need to move,” she coos, her voice soft yet commanding. She pulls me into a sitting position, and the room spins, the cat on the ceiling blurring into a yellow smear.

I nearly vomit. All she’s been feeding me is bone broth. The smell of it clings to my clothes, my skin, everything. I almost fall on the floor, but Valerie is there to catch me—well, mostly. My face slams into her shoulder, and it takes all of my focus just to breathe.

I’m so tired.

“Look at you,” she praises, though I’m not sure what there is to praise. “A perfect weight. Frankie, I think you are just about ready for training.”

She could recite the entire Declaration of Independence and I wouldn’t understand a single word because my brain cells are starving, and this bitch thinks I’m suddenly the perfect weight.

She tugs me up, and all I can do is lean on her. My long, dark hair is in knots and stuck under my sweaty arms. Saliva drips from my mouth, and I nearly pass out just from standing.

I get it now. The weaker I am, the easier I am to manipulate. Well, she can weaken my body all she wants, but she can never touch my mind.

She tugs me up and wraps her arms around me for support. Every step is agony as she guides me out of the room. The hallway is dim, the light at the end harsh and blinding. I stumble and nearly fall, but Valerie catches me, her grip firm and unyielding. My legs are weak, trembling with the effort to hold me up.

As we walk, I glance at the walls covered in photographs. Most are of Valerie, smiling and vibrant, but a few show other gaunt and hollow-eyed faces, their expressions mirroring my own despair. Ever since Valerie took me from the orphanage, promising a better life, my world shrank to this room and these chains. How many have there been? How many more will there be?

The journey to the medical room feels endless. Each step sends shockwaves of pain through my weakened body. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and the chill seeps into my bones. The walls seem to close in then expand, my vision swimming with each labored breath.

Valerie leads me to a small, sterile room at the end of the hall, the scent of disinfectant overwhelming. It stings my nose and makes my eyes water. A man in a white coat waits for us, his expression blank and professional. He looks me over, his gaze clinical and detached. The fluorescent lights flicker above, casting a sickly yellow hue on everything.

The closer Valerie gets, the antsier he becomes, but he doesn’t bother to help. When we are within a few feet, he pulls out a thermometer and checks my fever.

“Fever’s still high,” he mutters. “Get her in here.” He spins on a heel, stomping into the room as though we are interrupting his day.

Sorry for getting sick in your prison, asshole.

Valerie gets me into the room, which looks like a doctor’s office—white, sterile, and smelling faintly of bleach. She sets me on a chair beside a bed, where I nearly fold over as the doctor gets close, checking my vitals. The stethoscope is cold against my skin, making me shiver.

I might pass out at one point, but I can’t be sure.

“Lungs are congested. She needs rest, fluids, and antibiotics.”

I gasp for breath at his words, fully waking up.

Valerie nods, her mask of concern slipping back into place. “Do whatever you need to make her better.”

My eyelids flutter closed, and I slouch against the bed.

Just let me rest. Tomorrow, I’ll fight again.

“Live,” he whispers before he administers a shot, and I barely feel the prick of the needle. My body is numb, and my mind is foggy from pain and exhaustion. As the medication starts to take effect, the world fades to black.

Did he really demand I live?It’s the last thought I have before I fall asleep once again.

When I wake, I’m back in the room with the cat on the ceiling. The chains are gone, replaced by soft restraints that hold me to the bed. Valerie sits beside me, gently stroking my hair. Her touch is light, almost tender, but I know better than to be comforted by it.

“Feeling better, sweet Frankie?” she asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

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