Isabella’s POV
My head throbbed like someone had slammed it in a car door.
The scent hit first—sterile, sharp, like a hospital hallway soaked in bleach... and something floral underneath. Roses? No. Rotten roses.
I blinked. Pain flared behind my eyes. My body wouldn’t move. My wrists—strapped in place. Ankles too. Leather cuffs. Cold. Tight.
Panic didn’t bloom—it exploded, sudden and animalistic. My chest rose fast. Too fast.
“Damien?” I rasped. My throat was sandpaper. “Damien!”
No answer.
I was lying on my side. The floor beneath me was hard and unforgiving. Cement. And cold enough that it was seeping into my bones.
My mouth moved before my brain could catch up.
“Well,” I muttered, voice shaking despite myself, “this is definitely not the ladies’ room. Do I really have a sign on
