I blink at the sight of iron bars.
A cell?
Panicked, I try to jump up, but the sudden movement sends me swaying and I ease back again.
“Careful now. The cocktail they gave you takes a bit to wear off.”
The voice is deep and gravelly with a distinct Australian accent. He speaks in almost a whisper, but in the strangeness of my surroundings, I cower against the wall as if he had shouted. Searching for the source of the voice, I give a quick jerk of my head left then right, but I don’t see anyone.
My heart pounds as I begin to wonder if I’m hearing imaginary voices. Again. Though they’ve never had an Australian accent before.
“No fast movements or you’ll cover yourself in piss in no time. Trust me, you’ll regret it.”
The voice is a little louder this time and sounds too close—too real—to be ignored.
I squint into the shadows beyond my own cell. At first, I see only a shape, but then two large green eyes come into focus, nearly glowing in the darkness and staring back at me from a cell across from my own.
“Who’s there?” I ask, but it comes out in a barely audible rasp. I cough, desperate for water, but there’s nothing in the cold cell, save the cot and single blanket.
“I’m Dean.”
I try to concentrate on the name he gives, or any sign of recognition it brings, but my thoughts are addled and empty.
“And you are?” he prompts.
In the near-darkness, I lick my dry, chapped lips.
“Celeste.”
For a split second, I’m relieved I actually recall my own name. Then my eyes catch on the bandage wrapped around my left wrist, and a pit forms in my stomach. The voices I heard at the river. That all-too familiar face. My desperate attempt to end my own life. As I begin to remember the rest, whispers echo within my mind.
He has you now.
There’s no escape.
“Where am I?” I ask, shutting out the voice in my head.
“You’re in hospital, mate,” the man named Dean says, and his words are followed quickly by a derisive snort.
“Don’t call it that,” says a second voice, and I stiffen.
“Is someone else there?” I ask.
But there’s only silence.
I begin to wonder if I’ve imagined him.
“That’s Declan,” Dean says finally. “My brother. The rude one.”
Another snort. “It’s not my fault you’re just too nice.”
Curious, I throw back the covers and stand. The room wobbles a bit, and there’s a shuffle inside the cell across from mine.
“Take it slow,” Dean warns, but I manage to walk to the bars and grab them for support.
They’re rough, rusted and peeling from age. The concrete floor is cold beneath my bare feet. Goosebumps raise along my arms and legs, and I shiver from the draft that comes from further down the darkened hallway.
Craning my neck, I try to see where the passage leads, but the shadows swallow it up, obscuring any sign of an exit.
“What is this place?” I ask, though I’m not sure knowing will bring any sense of relief or clarity.
In the cell across from my own, a figure steps out of the shadows.
He’s tall. Through the thin shirt he wears, it’s easy to make out broad shoulders, muscled arms, and a toned chest. His sharp jawline is stiff with a tension reflected in his gaze as he stares back at me.
My knees weaken underneath his scrutiny.
I tell myself my body’s reaction is a side effect of whatever drugs I was given—a cocktail, as he put it—but the truth is I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more handsome. Or more intimidating.
From underneath a mop of messy brown hair, his emerald eyes rake me over, and I imagine him cataloguing me. Like he’s trying to figure out which box I fit into.
After a moment, he blinks, and his eyes soften.
“This is Le Rêve Asylum,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Asylum? But— How did I get here?”
“I imagine your story is much like the rest of ours,” he says. “You were given a drug, something to knock you out for the length of the journey, and then you were unceremoniously deposited here.”
“They can’t do that,” I say, indignation burning hot in my belly. “They didn’t have my permission to admit me.”
“They don’t need permission,” says the second voice, a sardonic lilt to his clipped words.
Footsteps sound, and another shape emerges from the shadowy depths of Dean’s cell. When a shaft of light falls over the second man’s face, I can only stare in surprise. They’re nearly identical—right down to the little tic in their jawline—and both are just as emotionally unreadable as they study me. But the second one, Declan, I assume, is bit leaner. His hair a tad longer, wilder. And his eyes, a slightly darker green than his twin’s, are also sharper.
More distrustful. And more calculating.
Instantly, I decide I was wrong before. I have met someone more intimidating than Dean.
“You’re twins,” I say finally, stating the obvious as I studiously ignore the way my clammy hands have started to slip against the bars. The way my left wrist throbs in pain as I clutch the metal more tightly.
What are two of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen—Australians at that—doing in a dungeon? For that matter, what am I doing in a dungeon? Even if I was involuntarily admitted for what happened in my flat… this isn’t the standard treatment for suicide attempts. Unless I actually succeeded and I’m in hell? That would make the most sense.
“Your perception is astounding,” Declan says dryly.
“Well, clearly you’re not identical in every way,” I toss back. I shoot Declan a saccharine smile. “Dean was right. You are the rude one, aren’t you?”
Dean laughs, and a thrill goes through me at the sound. Something about the pleasure in it feels nearly impossible in a place like this. And somehow that makes it all the more precious.
“I’m a realist,” Declan says stiffly, but his eyes are gleaming now. Whether it’s in playfulness or he’s plotting my death, I can’t quite tell yet.
“Okay, then. Give me the reality of my situation,” I tell him.
He tilts his head as if gauging whether I can actually handle it.
“All right. Here it is. You’ve been kidnapped. Snatched away from your former life. A life, I can only imagine, empty enough that no one will even miss you. At least not in any way that would cause problems for the people who took you. And now you’re property of Le Rêve; a body they can use to continue the torture they’re so good at. There’s no escape and no end date to your stay here. And if that’s not enough of a nightmare, these accommodations,” he gestures to the damp cells we’re standing in, “while uncomfortable, are nothing compared to what awaits you upstairs. But don’t bother with fear or grief or any of those petty emotions that inevitably lead to hope. Because there’s none of that to be had in a place like Le Rêve. There’s only the cold. And the dark. And the silence. This is your life now. Best to try and accept it. Denial only makes it worse.”
When he’s finished, I lick my lips, trying not to show how much his words have scared me. I know that’s what he’s waiting for. To watch me fall apart. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction.