POV: Elara Winters
Two hours of silence.
That's how long it takes to drive from the city into the mountains. Two hours for Elara to understand that screaming won't help and running won't work and that the man who kidnapped her isn't going to explain anything unless he decides to.
She sits in the back of the SUV between two silent men. The dark-eyed man sits in front. Rain hammers against the windows. The road disappears behind them.
Elara stares at her hands. They're still shaking.
The man in the front seat—the one who grabbed her, who said her parents sold her—he turns slightly. Just enough that she can see his profile.
"What's your name?" His voice carries to the back like he's speaking directly into her brain.
"Elara. Elara Winters."
"How old are you, Elara Winters?"
"Twenty-four."
He doesn't respond. Just turns back to face the road.
The silence stretches. Elara's mind races. Is he angry? Disappointed? Does he regret not killing her when he had the chance?
"Your parents," he says after several minutes, "have been stealing from me for eighteen months."
Elara closes her eyes. Of course they have. Of course whatever debt her parents created is massive enough that she's now property.
"The first time, it was small. A shipment they were supposed to move. They lost it—actually sold it to a rival operation." He speaks like he's reading from a report. "I let it slide. A mistake. A learning experience."
The road curves. Mountains loom in the darkness.
"The second time, they owed me money they'd borrowed. They came short. I gave them a deadline to raise the difference."
Elara doesn't speak. What is there to say?
"The third time," he continues, "they stole cocaine. Fifty kilos. Worth five hundred thousand dollars. Not just any cocaine. Mine. Product I'd promised to people who don't accept excuses or apologies."
He glances back at her.
"When I came to collect, your father cried," he says. "Your mother begged. They offered me everything they owned—which was nothing, because addicts own nothing."
Elara's jaw tightens.
"So they offered me you," he finishes.
The words hit her like a stone.
"My father valued you at two hundred thousand on the open market," he continues. "Your mother thought that was generous. They negotiated you down to five hundred thousand total against their entire debt. You were their closing argument."
Elara's throat is tight. She wants to cry. Wants to scream. Wants to do something other than sit here and understand that she's been a bargaining chip her entire life.
"Did they seem happy?" she asks quietly. "When they made the deal?"
He's silent for a moment.
"No," he finally says. "They seemed relieved."
And somehow, that's worse than if they'd seemed guilty.
The car continues north. The city lights disappear. Only darkness and forest and the sound of rain remain.
"What's your name?" Elara asks. She needs to know. Needs to attach a name to the man who owns her now.
"Dante Valorian."
The name means nothing to her. But the way his men tense when he says it, the way the driver's grip on the steering wheel tightens, the way Elara's instincts scream that she should be terrified—all of that tells her his name matters.
"Are you going to kill me?" she asks.
"I haven't decided yet," Dante says. And he says it so honestly that she almost believes him.
They drive for another hour. The rain gets heavier. The roads get worse. They're fully in the mountains now, in places where civilization feels like a distant dream.
Finally, gates appear. An estate. Stone and old money and isolation.
The car stops.
Dante turns in his seat to look at her.
"Welcome home," he says.
And Elara realizes she has nowhere else to go.