Page 88 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I open my eyes.
“Why would I do that?”
He shrugs. “Because no one’s coming for you.”
I consider that for a moment.
“Good,” I say. “Then I won’t miss them.”
He snorts softly.
“You’re a weird bastard.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Sometimes, in the long, silent hours when the hum in the walls sinks into my skull and my body feels like a sack of broken parts stitched together with willpower, I let myself remember one specific thing.
Not the goodbye.
Not the pain.
Not the fear.
The way Leah used to fall asleep halfway through arguments.
Mid-sentence.
Mid-rant.
Her voice would trail off, forehead dropping against my shoulder, stubborn even in sleep.
I hold onto that.
Not because it hurts.
Because it’s real.
And as long as it’s real, so am I.
They come for me again.
New room.
New machine.
New man.
“You still think she made it?” he asks casually, strapping electrodes to my arms.
I look at him.
“I don’t think about it.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrug.
“Believe whatever helps you sleep.”
