Chapter 2 HE THINKS I'M HIS PRISONER

The first thing I noticed was the dark.

It wasn't the comforting dark of night, but a smothering black that pressed on my eyes, my ears, my skin. I couldn't open my eyelids; they felt stuck together. My arms were stretched above my head, held tight by unseen bindings, aching. When I tried to move, to twist or pull or scream, only a choked gasp escaped my throat.

Panic flooded me, fire coursing through my veins. I'd always prided myself on my ability to survive anything. To be prepared. But even I couldn't control the chilling fear that washed over me.

"Where...?" I croaked, my throat so raw it felt like I'd swallowed sand.

A distant scrape-the slide of a door. Footsteps followed, slow, measured. They stopped, and a shadow fell across my sight. I tried to make myself smaller, to disappear, but the bindings prevented me.

"Ah, awake at last," a voice said. Calm. Controlled. It wasn't Torren. My stomach clenched.

I managed to open my eyes just enough to see a figure silhouetted against a faint light, hands clasped behind his or her back. The air was thick with the smell of oil and something acrid, a smell that spoke of industrial machinery and underground tunnels, not a polite conversation.

"I suggest you don't struggle," the voice continued. "You'll only hurt yourself."

I let out a dry, bitter laugh. "And if I do? Then what? You kill me?"

No reply. Just the low thrum of machinery and the frantic pounding of my heart. Escape was always an option. There had to be a way. I tried flexing my wrists against the bindings; metal bit into my skin. Pain sharpened my focus.

Pain is temporary. Freedom is forever.

I tried kicking out, swinging my legs. My foot hit something hard and cold-concrete. Good. I kicked again, harder this time, trying to throw my weight against the person watching me.

"Enough," the voice said, calm, clinical, but firm. Footsteps approached.

I braced myself. This wasn't Torren, but they were still dangerous. Everyone was dangerous. I was dangerous. Anyone who crossed Torren's path became dangerous.

The figure drew closer, and a glint of light reflected off something in his or her hand-a knife? A tool? I couldn't tell.

"You really need to calm down," the voice said again. "We're not your enemy... Well, not in the way you think, anyway."

My laugh was a harsh rasp this time. "Oh, really? Let me guess. You're the great hero here to save little Freya from the terrible, terrifying Torren?" My teeth gritted, my body shaking, not with fear, but with rage. They were playing with me. Everyone played with me.

Silence stretched for a moment before a small lamp illuminated the figure's face. A man, late twenties, sharp features and intelligent, calculating eyes. His jacket was a size too large, the sleeves pushed up. I didn't trust him. Not from his appearance, and not from the cold, emotionless way he spoke.

"Wrong," he said. His voice was low, but the precise tone made it worse. "We're not taking you to him."

I froze mid-struggle. "What do you mean... 'not taking me to him'?" I demanded, my voice a strangled hiss.

"Just what I said," the man continued, stepping closer. He leaned towards me slightly, an act of dominance, but not overtly so. "We're selling you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The ground seemed to tilt. "Selling me?" My voice cracked. Bile rose in my throat. "You're insane."

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "You're valuable. Very valuable. And someone is willing to pay a great deal of money to have you-whole, and unharmed. So it is imperative that you... Cooperate."

I spat at him. It landed on his jacket. He wiped it off with the back of his hand as if it were nothing, and my pulse thrummed. "You're going to regret this," I hissed, baring my teeth. "If you think I'll just..." I cut myself off. I couldn't let him see how badly this had rattled me. I couldn't.

The man tilted his head, regarding me like a particularly interesting puzzle. "You're... Feisty," he said, a faint hint of amusement in his voice. "I like that. Makes you worth more."

Worth more? I wasn't a prize, or a piece of property. Not even Torren saw me that way. But the words settled into my mind like a cold, hard stone. My training, my instincts, my escape plan-they had to be carefully calibrated. They were stronger than I'd initially thought. Not Torren strong, but strong.

I tensed, my muscles coiling. One wrong move, and I would be sold, or worse.

My mind raced, cataloging the few details I had. I could take him. Probably. If I used the element of surprise, if I watched his movements, if I found his weaknesses.

He circled me slowly, his footsteps light. "You've been running for a long time, haven't you?"

The accuracy of his statement startled me, and I faltered. "I... I don't know what you mean."

He smirked, a gesture that told me he knew I was lying. "Oh, I think you do. The constant vigilance, the fear behind your eyes, the way you jump when someone enters a room."

My blood ran cold. Torren wasn't the only one who had been hunting me. Someone else had been following me, and now they were using that knowledge to their advantage.

I flinched as he knelt, his eyes level with mine. There was no pity in them, no malice, just pure, cold calculation. "Relax," he said again. "You'll be fine if you just cooperate. Don't fight it. Don't try to escape yet."

"Relax?" I spat. "You think I'm some... Some decorative object to be calmed down?" I thrashed against the restraints, the metal biting deeper, my shoulders screaming in protest. But my rage burned brighter than any pain.

He raised a hand. "Careful. You'll only make it worse."

I didn't care. My pulse throbbed in my throat, my temples. I was alive. And while I was alive, I could fight.

A soft sound made me freeze-a click behind the door. Someone else. Another shadow moved, and I caught the flicker of eyes in the darkness.

I was outnumbered. The realization didn't unnerve me; it sharpened my focus. Two against one? Three against one? It didn't matter. I'd faced worse. I'd survived worse.

The man noticed my gaze. "You're clever," he said, almost grudgingly. "But clever doesn't guarantee freedom."

I glared. "I don't care what clever guarantees. I'm not going anywhere with you."

He tilted his head. "Oh, you're going somewhere. And whether you like it or not... Someone will pay handsomely for you. So, learn to recognize futility."

I laughed, even as fear gnawed at my insides. "Futility? You think I'm pretending?"

"Yes," he said, his voice soft. "Because if you truly understood your situation... You'd be quiet. You'd be careful. You'd know the cost of angering the wrong people."

My mind screamed at me. I had to escape. I had to figure out who these people were, why they weren't Torren, and how to turn this around.

I tested the restraints again, wiggling my fingers. Not much play, but there was always leverage. There was always a way. I was Freya. I survived. Always.

The man watched me, his eyes patient. Calculating. Waiting.

"You'll learn," he said finally, stepping back into the shadows. "Soon enough."