The Hollow Place

The Hollow Place
Isla’s POV

My head throbbed, every breath feeling like a mix of rust and blood. I blinked into darkness, but a cloth covered my eyes.
A blindfold.
The truck jolted hard. I slid against metal, my shoulder slamming the side wall. Voices outside the door—men arguing.
“She'd better still be breathing.”
“She’s fine. The boss said, "Keep her that way till Jace shows.”
“Cross’ll come for her. He always does.”
My chest tightened. They were waiting for him.
Another voice, quieter, rougher. “He’ll come. That’s the point.”
The door rattled open. Cold air rushed in, biting through my skin. Hands grabbed my arms, dragging me out. Gravel scraped my knees.
“Walk.”
They pushed me through a doorway that smelled of dust and rot. Somewhere above, a light buzzed weakly, the color of old bones.
Inside, it was colder. The carpet squished under my feet, damp with years of rain. A door creaked open, and I was thrown inside.
I hit the floor hard. Pain rippled up my spine. The door slammed. A lock clicked.
My eyes adjusted slowly to a slice of moonlight leaking through a crack in the boarded-up window. The room was small—one chair, a rusted sink, peeling wallpaper that smelled of mildew.
I tugged my wrists. The rope cut deeper. Whoever tied it wanted to make sure I remembered the pain.
My throat burned when I swallowed. I needed water. I needed air. I needed Damian.
But wanting him wouldn’t save me. Not yet.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. Focus. Look. Listen.
Somewhere outside the room, footsteps passed. Voices murmured, fading down the hall. Then quiet again.
I crawled to the wall and leaned back, closing my eyes just long enough to steady my pulse.
I thought of the earring he gave me—the one shaped like a blade of light. I’d lost it in that warehouse. A small thing, but maybe enough for him to find me. He’d see it. He always saw everything.
The door opened.
I tensed, ropes biting into my skin.
Two men stepped in. One carried a flashlight, the other a gun—the light cut across my face.
“She’s awake,” the tall one said.
“Boss’ll want to talk to her.”
They yanked me to my feet. My knees buckled, but they didn’t care. The hallway outside stretched long and dim, lined with open doors and empty rooms. Every few steps, the floorboards groaned like something alive.
At the end of the corridor, a single door stood closed. The taller man knocked once, then shoved me inside.
A single hanging bulb lighted the room. Dust swirled in the air. A man stood by the window, his back to me, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
He turned when the door shut.
I recognized him from the warehouse. The one they called boss.
Now I saw his face clearly. Early forties, pale eyes, a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His smile was slow, measured.
“So,” he said, voice smooth as smoke, “you’re the famous Isla.”
I didn’t answer. My wrists ached. My head pounded.
He studied me for a moment, then gestured for the guards to leave. The door closed. We were alone.
“I heard you tried to call your lover boy.” His smile widened. “That was brave.”
I met his eyes. “You’ll regret touching me.”
He laughed, soft and genuine, like I’d told a joke. “You sound just like him.”
My heart stuttered. “You know Damian?”
His gaze sharpened. “Know him?” He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the smoke and iron on his breath. “I made him.”
The words hit like a slap.
He circled me slowly, studying every bruise, every mark. “Once, we were brothers. Same blood, same fire. Then he burned me. Left me to die.”
The scar along his jaw caught the light.
He leaned in, voice low. “So you see, Isla, you’re not a hostage. You’re a message.”
I forced myself not to look away. “You want him to come here.”
“Oh, he will,” Jace said. “He always does. But when he walks through that door, he’ll be walking into his own grave.”
He flicked the cigarette, ash scattering at my feet. “You’ll help with that.”
“I won’t help you with anything.”
His hand shot out, gripping my chin hard enough to make my teeth clack. “You already have.”
He let go. “Clean her up,” he called toward the door. “She needs to look alive when Cross sees her.”
Then he left—just walked out, calm as if we’d discussed dinner plans.
Two guards came back, muttering. One threw a wet towel on the floor, the other laughed and shut the door again.
The lock clicked.
I sat there, shaking, the echo of Jace’s words crawling under my skin.
I made him.
Damian’s past. The scar. The fire.
Whatever happened between them, it wasn’t over. And now I was the thread tying them back together.
I pressed my forehead to my knees. My breath came out in small, broken sounds I didn’t recognize as mine.
Then—quiet again.
The kind of quiet that hums right before resolution.
Crying wouldn’t fix this. Waiting wouldn’t either.
Think like me.
That’s what Damian once said. We were sitting in his car after one of his operations, his knuckles still bruised. If you ever get trapped, don’t wait for me. Think like me.
The room was falling apart—plaster cracked, wallpaper peeling at the corners. Near the window, a piece of the board had split where moisture had rotted the wood.
I scooted over, the rope scraping my wrists raw, and pressed my fingers against it. The edge was sharp enough to bite. Good.
I started working the rope against it, slow and steady.
One strand. Then another.
Every movement sent a spark of pain up my arms, but I didn’t stop.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. Rain began to fall, tapping against the broken glass.
The rope thinned. My fingers burned.
I kept going.
Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed—low, ugly. Footsteps. A door slamming. The sound made my stomach twist, but I kept sawing.
I started again but faster this time, When the last knot loosened, my right hand slipped free. Blood rushed back to my fingers, hot and numb.
I wanted to scream from the relief, but I bit it down.
Half free wasn’t enough. I needed both hands. I needed a plan.
I glanced around the room again. In the corner, a small vent near the floor. Rusted, but loose. If I could reach it, maybe—
The doorknob rattled.