Burning Hearts

Chapter Five

At first, the world was nothing but a pulsating blur. Warm. Oppressive. Then came the pain—dull, throbbing. Somewhere deep in the back of her head. Her thoughts felt heavier than they should have. She blinked. It wasn’t dark. It was bright. Light filtered in through a window, and... there was a window. That was progress. The ceiling was white, the walls a pale gray. The room was clean, simple, and suspiciously quiet. Someone was watching.

Not the “maybe someone’s nearby” kind of feeling. No. This was the kind of watching you felt on your skin, like when someone leans too close on the subway—only here, no one spoke, and there was no escape. Andromeda slowly turned her head. And then she saw him.

At the far end of the room, a man sat in a chair, his elbow resting casually on a table. On the table: a half-filled glass of whiskey and a gun—placed there not for use, but like some kind of screaming ornament that said this is not a game.

Lucian Thornewell.

He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even look at her right away. He simply watched as she slowly came to. No movement wasted, no hesitation in his posture. Andromeda tried to sit up, but her stomach protested immediately. The bed creaked, and the sound made her flinch like she’d been slapped. Every nerve in her body screamed: danger.

“Finally,” Lucian spoke, his voice low and calm, as if her life wasn’t hanging in the balance. “Thought your little sedatives knocked you out for good.”

Andromeda frowned, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re the one who kidnapped me.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow.

“That’s one way to put it. Though I wasn’t the one who shoved you into the trunk, if that matters.”

“Not really,” she muttered, finally managing to sit up.

Her head still buzzed, and her mouth was dry.

“So what now? Interrogation? Forced confession? Torture?”

Lucian picked up the glass, swirling the amber liquid.

“It’s too early for that. First, I want to know who you are.”

Andromeda closed her eyes briefly, gathering what little strength she had left. She couldn’t show how weak she still was. How broken. Because men like him—they searched for cracks. And once they found one, they got in.

“Andromeda Carter,” she replied flatly. “But I’m guessing you already know that. Since you kidnapped me.”

Lucian nodded like it was a useless detail.

“I know your name. I don’t know what you’re hiding.”

Silence. Suffocating.

“Look,” he said again, this time more firmly. “Your brother owes me. A significant sum. And when we came to collect, he vanished. The only thing left behind was a name: Andy.”

“You thought I was a man.”

A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“Nice work.”

“Mistakes happen,” Lucian replied, setting down the glass.

His finger came to rest beside the gun—but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t have to.

“So what now?” Andromeda asked. “Wait around until Elliot shows up?

Because chances are, he won’t. He’s the type who leaves you behind before he ever comes back.”

Lucian stared at her for a few seconds. Her face. Her micro-expressions. Her tone.

“I’ve been starting to think the same,” he muttered. “But you... you’re still interesting. The kind of person who belongs everywhere, but fits nowhere. Invisible. No social media, no public profiles. Not a key figure in your company, yet your name’s in fine print on every blueprint.”

“Maybe I just don’t like the spotlight,” she shot back, trying not to look at the gun.

Lucian allowed himself a half-smile. Not a friendly one. More like a lion licking its teeth before stepping toward the cage.

“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than we thought. And that... irritates me.”

Her heartbeat sped up, but Andromeda held his gaze.

“Well, that’s new. A mafia boss annoyed that a woman isn’t posting on Instagram.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t try to be funny. I haven’t decided whether I like you yet.”

“Comforting,” Andromeda muttered and turned her head.

Her stomach churned, her neck still burned. But at least she was sitting up now. At least she was speaking. That was something. Lucian didn’t say more. He slowly slipped his hands into his pockets and walked toward the door.

“If you remember anything your brother did, now’s a good time to bring it up.

Because this isn’t a game. And my patience... isn’t infinite.”

Andromeda didn’t reply. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone in the room. The scent of whiskey lingered in the air, the gun’s shadow stretched long across the table. Her nerves ached, her mouth dry. But one thought echoed in her mind:

If I want to get out of here, he has to know me first. Then believe me. And then... the turn begins.

The silence after the door closed was different. Not like before, when darkness swallowed every sound. This silence... was alive. Breathing, humming, suffocating.

Andromeda still sat on the bed, but her posture had changed. A little less shattered. A little more... composed.

The gun was still on the table. Unmoving. Yet it felt like it was watching her. The scent of whiskey lingered too—but now, it didn’t smell threatening. Just bitter.

She slowly reached under the blanket and felt her clothes soaked in sweat. She had no idea when they’d changed her. Or who had. The thought sent a chill down her spine.

In the corner of the room, draped over the back of a metal chair, was a folded set of clothes. Nothing fancy: black soft sweatpants, a simple cotton shirt, and a clean set of underwear. Clean. Freshly washed. Someone had been watching.

Someone had prepared for her to wake up.

She sat there for a while. Motionless. Every part of her body hurt. Muscles, joints, her neck, her stomach—especially her stomach. She knew she’d had a panic attack. She always felt like this after. Like a wrung-out rag.

Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick, her throat burned—every swallow like dragging her tongue over sandpaper. She needed water. Anything. Now.

Slowly, painfully, she climbed off the bed. Her legs barely held her. She gripped the edge of the nightstand with her fingers. Balance. Focus. She couldn’t fall. Not here. Not now.

The bathroom door was in the left corner, slightly ajar. Small space. Blue-gray tiles, tiny sink, a drain behind the shower curtain, a towel hanging on the wall. Minimal. Practical. Prison comfort. But it had a faucet.

And that meant more than anything else right now.

She stumbled to it. Turned on the tap, and the sound of water was like life stirring back inside her. She bent down, cupped her hands under the stream, and drank. Large gulps. Then another. The cold water burned down her throat, slammed into her stomach—but she didn’t care. She was so parched the pain felt like salvation. She only realized she was shaking when she had to lean back against the sink again. Too much. Too fast.

But at least… she was alive.

She peeled off her clothes. All of them. The tiles beneath her feet were freezing, and the water started off icy, gradually warming. She didn’t plan to stand under it long. Her body didn’t have the strength. But still... she needed this.

The water washed away the sweat, the fear, the cold memory. She shivered when her fingers brushed the back of her neck. The spot of the blow still tender. As she dried off, her stomach growled—loudly, almost offended. She was hungry.

But they hadn’t brought her anything. Not even water. She’d just been lying there alone. Drying out. The thought stabbed unexpectedly sharp in her chest.

This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t an oversight. It was part of the playbook.

They were using her weakness. Her vulnerability. They thought that if she was hungry, thirsty, cold... she’d talk.

But they didn’t know her. They didn’t know that Andromeda Carter wasn’t made of the kind of porcelain that shatters when dropped. She had been cracking from the inside for years—and still held together.

She put on the clean clothes. The movements were slow. Sometimes the air caught in her lungs. But she managed. Tied up her hair, slid her legs off the bed, and slowly sat again. Her muscles ached. But this time, she stayed upright. Waiting.

Maybe that man would come back. Maybe this time, they’d bring food. Maybe... nothing would happen.

But if they came—she’d be ready. To speak, to lie, to strike back. Because now, it wasn’t just Lucian watching her. She would be watching him too.

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The monitor glowed softly in the dim office. The rest of the lights were off, shadows stretched long across the wall. Lucian sat in his chair, elbow on the armrest, glass of whiskey in hand. The same drink he’d had in the morning. Yet somehow it tasted more bitter now. On the screen: Andromeda Carter.

A little disheveled. Wet hair. Wearing a sweatshirt and socks, barefoot, knees pulled up on the edge of the bed. Her movements were slow. Not delicately feminine—more like every muscle protested every tiny effort.

Lucian said nothing. Didn’t move. He just watched.

The camera angle was perfect. He saw her stumble to the bathroom. Saw her drink from the faucet like it was the first thing she’d had that wasn’t pain or fear. Saw her tremble. Saw her stagger back and grip the sink. That wasn’t acting.

That was real. The doctor said she had no fever. The meds worked, the IVs replaced what they could. Physically, she should’ve been okay. Maybe not perfect, but not this weak.

Lucian narrowed his eyes. Took a sip, but the whiskey didn’t give answers. Just burned. Something was off.

Still recovering from the panic attack? Maybe the hit landed deeper than they thought? Or... had she simply learned to make herself so small, so insignificant that no one would take her seriously? The thought irritated him.

He hated people he couldn’t read. The transparent ones were the best: a little threat, a little pressure, and everything spilled out. But Andromeda... she didn’t crack. She went silent. And silence, in a place like this? That wasn’t courage. That was dangerous.

Lucian leaned back, eyes still locked on the screen. She was tying her hair now, slowly, painfully. Then she shuffled back to the bed and sat. Didn’t lie down. Just sat. Waiting. She knew she was being watched.

That thought brought a smile to Lucian’s lips. Not a joyful one. More like... respect. As if a new move had been made in a game—and the other player had finally stepped in. The woman wasn’t ignorant. And she wasn’t helpless either.

Maybe her body was still wrecked. But her eyes... her eyes were watching. Calculating.

Lucian set the glass on the desk, pulled out a notebook. Not a computer. Paper. He preferred it: the ink, the weight, the shape of thoughts in hand.

Notes:

no fever

no drugged stupor

movement sluggish, weakness persists

reached for water greedily → not panic, necessity

no reaction to lack of food

aware she’s being watched

does NOT cry

does NOT beg

does NOT ask about her brother

That last part especially bothered him. If someone gets kidnapped, most people want to know: What’s going to happen? When will he come for me? What did he do? But she hadn’t asked anything. Not yesterday. Not now. Either she truly knows nothing about Elliot...

...or she knows a hell of a lot more than anyone thinks.

Lucian closed the notebook. Stood. Braced himself on the desk for a second, like he was weighing the next step. Then he reached under the desk and pressed a button.

“Tobias,” he said, voice crisp and controlled. “Bring a tray of food. Real food. Not prisoner slop. Fresh, hot, human. Water too. And something for her head, if it still hurts.”

Silence on the other end. Then Tobias’s quiet, slightly surprised voice:

“You’re in a nurturing mood this morning?”

Lucian’s eyes flashed, but his voice remained cool.

“A weak body is useless.

And a woman with an empty stomach won’t talk. I’ll bring it to her myself in an hour.”

He ended the call. On the screen, Andromeda still sat there—slightly hunched forward, as if trying to hold back either hunger or nausea. Her hand rested on her knee. Her face pale, but her lips no longer trembled. Lucian murmured softly to himself:

“Let’s see what else you’ve got, Andy Carter.”

And he headed downstairs.