CLAIMED BY THE VIPER

Chapter 3: The Monster's Cage

The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone again.

I stood in the center of the room, my wrists stinging where the ropes had bitten into my skin, and listened to his footsteps retreating down the hallway. The lock engaged with a heavy thud, the sound of a cage closing around me, and I felt the last shred of my composure crumble into dust.

I sank to the floor, my knees giving out beneath me, and pressed my palms against the cold concrete. The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable, streaming down my cheeks and dripping onto the floor in silent, steady drops. My father was dead. I had watched him die. I had seen the blood pool beneath his body, had heard the final, rattling breath leave his lungs, and I had done nothing.

And the man who had saved me, the one with the cold grey eyes and the haunted expression, was one of them. I didn't understand him. He had killed my father—or at the very least, he had been part of the crew that had done the killing. But he had also lied to the other men to spare my life. He had cut my bonds and carried me away from Bishop's cruelty. And when he had looked at me, I had seen something in his eyes that didn't belong to a monster. Guilt. Regret. A pain so deep it had carved grooves into his soul.

I pressed my forehead against my knees and tried to breathe. But my mind kept racing. What were they going to do to me? How long would they keep me here? Would anyone come looking for me? My father had been building a case against the Iron Vipers. He had witnesses, evidence, a network of federal agents depending on him. Surely someone would notice when he didn't show up for work.

I clung to that hope like a lifeline.

I forced myself to look around the room. It was small and spartan, barely bigger than a prison cell, with a narrow bed and a small bathroom in the corner. The window was high up, too high to reach. There was no way out. At least, not through conventional means. I would have to find another way.

I pushed myself to my feet and began to search the room for anything that could be used as a weapon or a tool. The bed was bolted to the floor. The bathroom had a sink, a toilet, and a shower, but no razor blades, no glass. Whoever had designed this room had thought of everything.

I slumped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster seemed to dance in the dim light. I had never felt so alone.

And then I thought about him again. The man with the viper patch. He had said he wouldn't hurt me. He had said he wasn't going to hurt me. But he had also dragged me into this nightmare. I didn't know if I could trust him. I didn't even know if I wanted to. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty: he was my only chance. If I was going to survive this, I would have to find a way to get through to him. I would have to make him care.

The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

---

The hours passed in a haze of fear and exhaustion. I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's body crumpled on the floor.

I was still awake when the lock clicked open, and the door swung inward. My heart leaped into my throat, and I scrambled backward on the bed. But it was him. The man with the grey eyes and the viper patch. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"Easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?" I demanded, my voice shaking.

He crossed to the small table and set down a tray of food—a sandwich, a bottle of water, an apple. "You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You will be." He gestured to the tray. "It's not poisoned. I wouldn't do that to you."

I stared at him, searching for any sign of deception. "Why are you helping me? You killed my father. You work for the men who murdered him. So why are you bringing me food and cutting my bonds and keeping me alive?"

Something flickered in his eyes, raw and vulnerable. "Because I know what it's like to lose someone," he said quietly. "And because you deserve better than what's waiting for you if Bishop gets his way."

I couldn't speak. He was standing there, looking at me like I mattered, and it made no sense. He should have killed me. Instead, he was bringing me food and telling me I deserved better.

"What's your name?" I whispered. "I need to know what to call you."

He was silent for a long moment. "They call me Ravage."

"That's not a name. That's a title."

He almost smiled. "It's what I am."

"No," I said, surprising myself. "That's what they made you. But you're not what they think you are. I can see it."

He stared at me. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've done."

"Maybe not. But I know what I saw. You saved me. More than once. That doesn't sound like a monster to me."

For a moment, the mask slipped. I saw the man beneath the viper patch—tired, exhausted, just as lost as I was.

"You shouldn't trust me," he said, barely above a whisper. "I'm not a good man. But I made a promise, and I keep my promises."

"What promise?"

He didn't answer. He just turned toward the door. "Eat the food. Get some rest."

"Wait," I called out. "I don't even know your real name."

He looked back over his shoulder, and the vulnerability was back, raw and unguarded.

"It's Dante," he said. "My name is Dante."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his name and the faint, impossible hope that he might just be the key to my survival.