Page 24 of Twisted Vows

As he responds, his voice remains calm. “You think I care?”

“Don’t you?” My own voice comes out smaller than I want.

“No.” His eyes betray him, darkening and briefly dropping to my lips again.

He pivots to leave, the movements deliberate and controlled.

Despite everything—despite common sense and every screaming instinct—I don’t want him to go.

“Wait.”

He stops but doesn’t turn around. He stays motionless, his broad back to me. Brokenly, I wonder what it would feel like to climb up there and let him carry me somewhere safe.

Don’t be ridiculous, Sophia.

“I’ll talk. If I remember anything, I’ll send for you through Gio.”

He gives a nod. “Smart.”

“Because I’d be giving you what you want?”

“Yes.” He glances back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine and glinting with a brief flash of desire that vanishes just as quickly. “The quicker you jog your memory, the better.” And then, he leaves.

The room immediately feels empty.

After finishing my meal, I curl up on the cot like some tragic Victorian heroine who’s all out of fainting couches and stare at the Texas-shaped ceiling stain again. Enzo’s scent lingers in this place, smoky and infuriatingly masculine.

My body recalls things I wish it didn’t, things I’ve tried so hard to forget, like the heady feeling of having his hands on me that day on the highway, and how his touch was gentle despite the violence that radiated from him. That moment transformed my fear of him into something more… I don’t have a name for it and don’t want one.

And I hate that. I hate him for awakening this sensation, hate that his eyes see through me like I’m made of glass. I don’t know if I want to run, scream, or melt into this dangerous thing between us. Most of all, I’m not sure if I want him to come back tomorrow, or if I hope I never see him again. Both options terrify me.

I have to get out of here before my heart becomes a traitor and my body forgets that kindness in a cage is still captivity.

It’d be stupid not to recognize a man who can press a knife to your throat one moment and hold your hand the next and mean both equally.

The day slips away slowly, wearing all of yesterday’s bruises and none of today’s promises.

The little lamp above my cot still buzzes furiously. If I breathe too deeply, the mattress squeaks. Everything in this room is cold, gray, and indifferent. A sink and toilet sit in the corner behind a flimsy partition. No door or real privacy. Just a reminder that even basic dignity is borrowed here. It doesn’t scream prison. It whispers it, like a secret.

I’m still wearing the clothes they abducted me in, the cream blouse with the torn shoulder seam, along with the navy skirt now wrinkled and stained at the hem. A sweater that Rocco brought yesterday lies on the chair next to my bed. Luckily, he also came with comfortable shoes. I washed my face in the sink this morning. Scrubbed the dried tears from my cheeks.

Then I fixed my hair in a tight braid that pulls at my scalp a little. That’s the point, though. Discipline. Focus. One neat strand at a time. Control masquerading as grooming.

These things matter. Rituals. They make me feel human.

Without them, I might unravel.

A soft, almost polite knock—like I’m a guest and not a prisoner—startles me.

Gio enters. Despite his bruised temple, he regards me like I’m the fragile one. Two days after I took a plank to his head.

“You okay?”

“Define okay?”

He shrugs while handing me a bottle of water. “Still breathing?”

“Unfortunately.”