Page 58 of Matteo

"What happened?" Panic laces Spike's voice. "Boss!"Desperation now, a raw edge that chills me more than the cold creeping in.

"I can't see him!" The realisation slams into me, a punch to the gut. Matteo isn't here. He's gone.

"Fuck!" Spike’s curse is a snarl of fury and fear. "We need to get out, can you move?"

I try, god, I try, but my body's a lead weight, pinned down. "I don't think so, I’m pretty much laying on the seat back here," I admit through gritted teeth.

"Can you reach or see your door at all?" Spike's trying to keep it together, but his voice is tight, strained.

"I can’t even see you," I rasp out, the effort to speak sending spikes of pain radiating through me.

Footsteps. Running towards us—a rapid cadence over gravel. "Help! Help!" I scream into the void, hoping against hope it's someone who gives a damn.

Metal grinds on metal, the distinct sound of our tomb being pried open. "Help!" I cry again, louder, desperate.

"Eleanor stop!" Spike's shout is a jolt of electricity. "There is no way the authorities got here that quick."

Fear, ice-cold, seeps into my veins. If it's not the cops... then who the hell is it?

"Who is it?" The words slip out, a whisper lost in the chaos. Then pain, sharp and unyielding—someone's got my ankle. Light floods the crumpled space where metal used to be, blinding me as they wrench me from my steel cocoon. "Argh!" The scream tears from my throat, raw and desperate. My leg's on fire, each tug a new circle of hell.

"Fuck! Stop!" It's pointless, the plea drowned by the grinding of twisted car parts and my own ragged breaths.

"Fuck, Eleanor!" Spike's voice is distant thunder, filled with panic and fury. I hear the sounds of his struggle, boots against dash, a futile attempt to reach me.

Cold air slaps my face, a cruel reminder that I'm no longer trapped. But freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. And I've lost... so much.

"Matteo..." The name is a prayer, a curse. My eyes search frantically, and there, a shadow sprawled on the unforgiving ground. "No, no, no, no, no!" Desperation claws at my chest, a wild animal refusing its cage.

"Matteo, wake up!" My screams are a siren's call, unanswered, unheard. The truth is a blade twisting in my gut—he's too still, too silent.

"Stop." The command is like gravel, chillingly close. "He's dead." A dark voice, not Spike's, seeps into my ear, carrying the finality of a grave.

My heart hammers, then halts. Matteo can't be gone; this can't be how our story ends. But black spots dance before my eyes, a macabre ballet to the rhythm of my disjointed breaths. The darkness comes, greedy, consuming everything until there's nothing left but the void.

"Are you sure he's dead?"The voice slices through the murky haze of consciousness, sharp and cold. I try to rise, to confront the reality of that question, but my body is a slab of concrete, unyielding, heavy with dread. My eyes, they're shuttered windows refusing to open, keeping me in the dark.

"One hundred percent I checked." Those words seal it—Matteo, sprawled on unforgiving asphalt, life bleeding out.No, no, no. This can't be. My heart claws at the inside of my chest, desperate to escape the truth. Where am I? The surface beneath me is firm, steady—a stark contrast to the throbbing chaos of my leg. It's broken, has to be. The pain is its own entity, gnawing, biting at my senses.

"She's waking up," someone murmurs close by, their voice laced with a quiet urgency that sets my nerves on edge.

Eyelids heavy as iron curtains finally lift after an agonizing struggle. Blinding white assaults me, a sterile blaze of lights glaring from every direction. Fuck, it's too much. With a groan, I attempt to shield my eyes, but something halts my arm mid-air. Chains. Cold metal encircling my wrist, chaining me to the hospital bed. But this... this isn't a hospital. It's a room drowned in white, walls lined with bookcases crammed full, spilling over with books—a silent audience to my captivity.

"Fuck." The word is a whisper of dust, a futile rebellion against the bindings that hold me down, against the blinding light, against the stark, empty reality that unfolds before me.

My gaze flits across the room, landing on a figure beside me. A sense of surreal calm floats through my mind, like I'm caught in some twisted daydream. Books upon books, their spines a kaleidoscope of muted colours and faded gold letters, surround us in this sterile white tomb. But no, this can't be heaven—not with the stench of betrayal souring the air.

"Patrick?" My voice barely breaks the silence, a hoarse whisper betraying my confusion.

"El." His reply is soft, almost tender, but there's something cold lurking beneath it.

"What the hell, Patrick? What are you doing here?" I demand, fighting against the restraints that hold me captive.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he leans closer. "I've come to take you back home," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Home?" The word tastes like ash on my tongue. "I don't understand?"

"Home, El." His smile widens, a predator baring its teeth. "You belong to me."

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