Oddette's Pov
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. They slid uselessly over the seat, fumbling for something cold, something solid. The handle. I needed the handle.
Tears blurred everything. My chest heaved so hard I thought it might break. My breaths came out sharp, almost hiccups, but I kept going. My fingers traced seams, leather, smooth surfaces, nothing that saved me.
I was crying so fast I couldn't even tell where the tears ended and the panic began. The only prayer I could form was a broken one. Don't notice. Please don't notice. Don't see me. Let me go.
I would rather be dead than sit one more second in this car with him.
The car moved fast—I could feel the way the air shifted through the cracks, hear the hum of the tires eating the road. It didn't matter. Speed meant nothing. If I jumped, it would be suicide. Bones would shatter, my body would break.
I didn't care.
Because reality was finally hitting me like a storm: my father was dead. He was gone, bleeding out on the rug, and nothing I did would change it. The man who killed him—his killer—was sitting right beside me. And worse, I was being taken somewhere I didn't know, somewhere that could hold even darker things than death.
If death was the only escape, I would take it.
My fingers scraped again, desperate. And then I heard it.
"Odette."
My whole body froze.
He said my name.
It slid through the air, low, steady. I flinched so hard my teeth bit my lip. I tasted copper. My throat closed around it.
I shook harder, hands fumbling blindly over the door, faster now, more desperate. My head spun. No. I couldn't stop. I couldn't listen.
He said my name again.
"Odette."
This time softer. Lower. Like a warning, like the edge of something sharp pressed against my skin.
Fear crawled into me, icy, filling every nerve. I shook my head, hard, wet strands of hair slapping against my cheeks. No. I wasn't listening. I wasn't going to listen.
My hands were clumsy, betraying me, slipping everywhere. I hated my blindness then more than ever. If only I could see, maybe I'd already be gone. Maybe I'd already be free.
But my fingers finally landed on it. Cold. Metal. The handle.
I gasped, sob tearing out of me, and pulled.
The door swung open.
Wind slammed into me, wild and violent. It stole my breath instantly. My hair whipped against my face, my body tipping toward the pull. My towel shifted dangerously, threatening to slip. My heart thundered against my ribs.
I had made up my mind.
I was going to jump.
I didn't care if I broke, if I shattered. Better that than living in the hands of my father's murderer. Better that than whatever fate waited for me at the end of this road.
My toes pressed against the floor, ready to push off.
And then—
A hand.
A strong arm, fast as lightning, slammed into me and yanked me back.
The door slammed shut with a deafening crack.
"Odette!"
His voice tore through me, sharp and furious, right against my ear.
I froze.
"What is wrong with you?"
The sound slammed into me like a whip. His voice cut sharp, right in my face, loud enough to rattle my bones.
"Why can't you just sit still?"
I froze.
My eyes went wide, wider than they already were, the cloudy gray pupils useless but still straining, searching. My body locked. My throat closed. Shock ran through me like a knife dipped in ice.
I couldn't escape. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even cry at first.
The way he screamed at me… it wasn't human. It wasn't anger the way other men got angry. It was cold, merciless rage, the kind that made me feel smaller than the jacket I was wrapped in.
And beneath all that fear, disbelief burned.
This man killed my father.
This man held me captive, stole me from my home, ordered my people to be burned alive.
And now—now he thought he had the right to scream at me?
Like I was the one who did something wrong?
Like I was his?
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall yet. I wanted to hold on, just for a second, to the fire rising in me.
I sat there trembling, wide-eyed, my chest rising too fast, too shallow. His grip on me was hard enough to bruise. My shoulders burned with the sting of it.
Then I felt it. His hand slipping away. His fingers finally loosened, dragging slowly off my skin. The marks stayed, throbbing.
He sighed. A sound heavy, frustrated.
And in that moment, my anger snapped free.
I moved on instinct. My hands flew up, searching blindly, feeling along his chest, higher, higher, until I found it—his neck. The solid warmth of him under my fingers.
And I lunged.
I bit down. Hard.
My teeth sank into his skin, and I clamped down with everything I had. My jaw ached from the force, but I didn't let go. Rage powered me. Grief powered me.
I wanted him to feel it.
I wanted him to bleed.
I wanted him to suffer the way my father suffered, the way I was suffering.
If this man killed me for it—good. Then at least I wouldn't have to live through another second of this nightmare.
I bit harder, harder, until my teeth hurt, until I thought my jaw would crack. I could taste skin, salt, maybe even blood. But he didn't push me away.
He didn't even move.
The car stayed in motion, the steady hum of wheels against the road. The man in the driver's seat spoke. His voice clipped, nervous. "Boss—"
My stomach dropped. I thought this was it. I thought maybe he'd stop the car, maybe they'd drag me out into the dark and leave me in a ditch for daring to fight.
But no.
Nothing.
The car kept going. The silence pressed down, heavier than before.
I realized something then.
My biting—it wasn't working. It wasn't doing anything. I could've been chewing stone for all the reaction I got from him.
Hot tears spilled over. My teeth unclenched, slipping free. My body shook, wracked by sobs I couldn't hold back.
I let out a sound, broken and ugly, the kind that ripped straight out of my chest.
My hands curled into fists, weak fists, but I swung them anyway. Punch after punch against his chest, against his arm, anywhere I could reach.
If my bite couldn't hurt him, then maybe my fists could.
Maybe my fury could.
"Monster!" I screamed. The word tore my throat raw. "You're a killer! A monster!"
My fists kept hitting, my arms already weak but refusing to stop.
"You killed my father!" My voice cracked, almost broke in half. "You killed my people!"
Tears streamed down my face, hot, endless.
"I hate you!" I cried, punching harder, faster, even though I knew it did nothing. "I hate you! I hate you!"
He let me. He didn't block me. He didn't strike back.
I kept going until my lungs burned, until every sob felt like fire.
"How dare you hold me back!" I screamed. "I will leave! I will leave!" My voice pitched high, shrill with desperation. "I would rather die than be with you!"
The words ripped out of me with the last of my strength. And then silence fell, a silence so heavy even I could feel it.
The car went still, even while it moved. The driver said nothing. The men around us said nothing.
Even he said nothing.
But I felt it. The change.
The air shifted. Thickened. My skin prickled. My heart stuttered.
I swallowed hard, my throat aching. I didn't know what he was about to do, but I knew it wasn't good.
And then I felt him.
Leaning closer. His breath brushed my cheek, hot, steady. Too close. My body stiffened, every muscle locked in fear.
Before I could think, his hand snapped forward and wrapped around my neck.
Tight.
Air fled instantly.
I gasped, choking, my fingers clawing at his hand, trying to pull it down. My lungs screamed.
His voice was right there, low, growling, every syllable a blade.
"You die when I tell you to die," he said.
"And you live because I let you live."
His grip tightened. I wheezed, coughed, my tears falling harder, faster.
"You don't decide that."
My eyes widened, my cloudy gray gaze staring straight into the void where I knew his eyes burned back at me. My chest heaved, my lungs desperate. My nails scraped against his hand but did nothing.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. Only terror lived in me now.
Then—finally—his grip loosened.
Air tore back into my chest, painful, ragged. I gasped, coughed, sucked it in desperately, each breath burning down my throat.
Tears blurred everything. My hands shook as they dropped from his. My body curled into itself, trembling.
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe this was my life now.
That my father was dead. That I was trapped in a car with his killer. That every breath I took depended on his whim.
I cried harder, but quieter now. My voice broke down into sobs that rattled my chest and then melted into silence.
And then he said something that shattered whatever scraps of hope I had left.
"Lock the doors."
The driver obeyed. I heard the clicks, one by one, every door sealing, trapping me inside this moving coffin.
The sound was louder than any scream.
I went silent.
And I cried silently.