8.Eliza
1295 Words
I wake to the same ceiling.
For a second, I don’t understand why that thought terrifies me.
The room is dim, curtains half drawn, pale winter light bleeding through the edges. The bed beneath me is too large, the sheets too heavy. The air smells faintly of pine and something darker beneath it, something animal that makes my stomach twist.
Déjà vu hits hard enough to steal my breath.
No.
No, no, no.
My fingers curl into the mattress as memory rushes back without mercy.
Blood.
A man screaming.
Hands. Bare hands crushing bone like it was nothing.
Rowan.
My chest tightens violently. I gasp, sucking in air like I’ve been underwater too long. Panic crawls up my throat, sharp and choking.
The door opens.
I flinch so hard pain sparks down my spine, scrambling backward until my shoulders hit the headboard.
It’s not him.
A girl stands there, barely older than me. Dark hair pulled into a loose braid, eyes wide and unsure. She freezes when she sees me awake.
“Oh,” she says softly. “You’re… awake. I’ll— I’ll tell—”
She turns to leave.
“No,” I croak.
The word comes out broken, barely sound at all.
She hesitates, then nods quickly and disappears.
I wrap my arms around myself, heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts. Every sound feels too loud. Every second stretches thin.
Then she’s there.
Lyra.
She moves quickly, already holding a glass of water, a small bottle of juice, something else in her other hand. Medicine. Of course it is. Everyone here seems to have a plan for my body.
“Easy,” she says gently, sitting beside the bed like she belongs there. “You scared us.”
Scared us.
I stare at her, at the calm in her face, at the way she doesn’t look shaken at all.
“You saw,” I whisper.
Her hand pauses mid motion.
I don’t need to explain. I don’t need to say what. My voice shakes anyway.
“He killed him,” I say. “He— he crushed him. Like— like—”
My throat closes. My vision blurs.
Lyra presses the glass into my hands. “Drink.”
I don’t want to. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust anyone here.
But my hands are trembling so badly I spill water onto the sheets, and instinct wins. I drink.
The cold grounds me just enough for the fear to sharpen instead of overwhelm.
“I need to go home,” I say, panic clawing its way back in. “I need to call my family. You don’t understand— I can’t be here. I can’t—”
“Eliza,” Lyra says quietly.
She waits until I look at her.
“Go with the flow.”
The words hit harder than the slap ever could have.
“Excuse me?”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize.
“There is nothing you can do right now,” she says evenly. “Fighting will only make this worse for you.”
My laugh comes out sharp and hysterical. “Worse? He murdered someone.”
“Yes,” she says. “And he would do it again.”
The honesty in her voice chills me more than denial ever could.
A shadow moves under the door.
My breath stutters.
“No,” I whisper. “Please.”
Lyra follows my gaze and sighs. She stands.
“He’s here.”
She reaches for the door.
I clutch the glass tighter, knuckles white.
The door opens.
Rowan steps in.
The glass slips from my fingers.
It hits the floor and shatters, the sound sharp and violent, echoing too loud in the room.
I flinch back instinctively, heart slamming, breath stalling in my chest.
Lyra glances down at the mess, then at me.
“It’s fine,” she says quickly. “I’ll send someone to clean it. Don’t worry.”
She doesn’t look at Rowan as she leaves.
The door closes.
The broken glass lies scattered near the bed, catching the light. Sharp. Close. Too close.
Rowan stands there, filling the room without touching anything. His gaze flicks briefly to the shards on the floor, then back to me.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
The image of his hands crushing bone flashes behind my eyes. My body remembers before my mind does.
“Eliza,” he says.
My name sounds wrong in his mouth.
I press myself further into the mattress, heart hammering, limbs stiff with terror. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I know what you saw,” he continues. “But what he did put you in danger.”
I shake my head, tears burning. “You killed him.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No excuse.
“He was risking your safety.”
A broken laugh tears out of me.
“My safety?” I choke. “You kidn*pped me. You dragged me here. You locked me in a room. And you’re talking about my safety?”
He takes a step closer.
I recoil instantly, scraping backward.
He stops.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, voice calm, controlled. “I need you to understand that.”
My breathing comes fast and shallow. “I saw what you are.”
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
“Do not defy me,” he says quietly. “Do not try to run again. Do not do anything reckless.”
“You call this reckless?” My voice cracks. “You’re the one killing people.”
“You are alive,” he replies evenly. “Because I intervened.”
I shake my head, tears spilling. “My family.”
His jaw tightens.
“They’re looking for me,” I whisper. “Please. Just let me tell them I’m okay.”
A pause.
“I’ll trust you,” he says at last.
The word feels heavy. Dangerous.
He hands me my phone.
My fingers tremble as I take it.
“Don’t betray that trust,” he says, and leaves.
I dial immediately.
My sister answers, “Oh My God. El? Where are you? Are you okay? Whe..”
“I’m okay,” I rush out. “I’m with a friend. Outside the city. Something urgent—”
I try to add more. A hint. Anything.
The phone is ripped from my hand.
Rowan stands beside the bed. I didn’t hear him enter.
I collapse forward. “Please. Please let me go.”
He grips my chin—not rough, not gentle—forcing my gaze up.
“You don’t know what’s out there,” he says.
“Then explain,” I plead. “What do you want from me? I am a nobody. I have nothing.”
His grip loosens.
“You’re important,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’ll know soon,” he replies. “But for now—”
He steps closer.
Too close.
My body reacts before my mind does.
I scramble sideways, heart racing, feet tangling in the sheets. My hand brushes something sharp.
The glass.
Without thinking, without aiming, I grab a shard and fling it.
It slices across his cheek.
Blood wells instantly, dark and vivid.
I freeze.
“Oh my God— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
The shard clatters to the floor.
Rowan doesn’t even stagger.
He touches his cheek slowly, fingers coming away red. His expression doesn’t change. Not anger. Not pain.
Interest.
“It’s alright,” he says softly.
Blood drips onto my hands where I clutch the sheets, warm and real. I stare at it, horrified.
Then I look back up.
The cut is gone.
Perfect skin. No mark. No wound.
Only the blood remains.
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