Chapter 60 Chapter 60

Chapter 60 Chapter 60
Tito’s POV

I woke up to that dragging pain again.

It lives in my neck now — a thin, angry line of fire that pulls every time I breathe too deep or move too fast. The skin feels stiff, swollen, like the cut is still deciding whether it wants to heal or tear itself wide open again.

And honestly? I wouldn’t even blame it for choosing violence. Everything in here feels stuck between those two choices.

I shift on the cold floor and hiss.

The sound echoes too loudly in this stupid room. Concrete walls. Metal door. One tiny pane of glass near the ceiling that lets in light just bright enough to annoy me but not bright enough to feel like hope.

Morning, I guess.

It’s my third one here.
Three mornings.
That’s how I’m counting time, since the rest of the day blurs into one messy loop of nothing and dread.

“Don’t move too fast,” Beatrice mutters from somewhere beside me. Her voice is scratchy — either from sleep or from crying earlier. Probably both. I don’t ask. “You’ll pull the wound again.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

I’m not.

The moment I sit up properly, the cut on my neck stings like someone sliced me open fresh. And yeah, maybe that’s what I get for trying to headbutt that guard yesterday. I don’t regret it.

He had yanked Stella’s hair hard enough to make her squeal, and something in me snapped. I didn’t think; I just launched at him and paid for it immediately. His knife was fast. My impulse was stupid. End of story.

Beatrice shifts so she can look at me. She always studies my face in the mornings, as if checking whether I broke sometime in the night.

“How did you sleep?” she asks.

“Like a queen,” I mutter. “Five-star floor. Tempur-Pedic concrete. Amazing.”

She doesn’t laugh, but her lips twitch. That’s good enough.

My throat is dry. Not just thirsty-dry but sandpaper, desert, “if I cough, dust might come out” dry. Water is… it just is what it is here. Rare. Small sips. Never enough. Crying is a luxury. Crying wastes moisture. Crying hurts.

I swallow carefully. “Has anyone come?”

Beatrice shakes her head once. Slow. “No. Not since yesterday morning.”

Of course not. No footsteps. No voices. No signs that the world outside remembers we exist.

I drag my knees up to my chest and lean my head back against the wall. The concrete is cold against my scalp, grounding me a little. If I close my eyes, I can almost trick myself into thinking I’m still in my room. My real room. My house. My bed. My mom’s voice drifting from the hallway—

My chest tightens so fast it scares me.

I suck in a breath through my nose and force myself to stay still. If I let myself cry now, my body will burn through water I don’t have. I can already feel the dehydration lurking, waiting. No. Not today.

“She’ll be looking for you,” Beatrice says gently.

I don’t answer.

She doesn’t know my mom.
She doesn’t know Jax.
She doesn’t know anything about the mess I left back home or the fact that the last time I saw my mom, we didn’t exactly hug it out.

And Jax…
God. I don’t even know if he’s behind this or if he’s losing his mind thinking I left on purpose. Both options make me nauseous.

“I’m not crying,” I say quickly, before Beatrice can get ideas.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yeah well you thought I was.”

She smiles faintly. “You’re very dramatic for someone trying to act strong.”

I roll my eyes, but something about her tone calms me. Beatrice has that effect. She’s older than me — maybe late twenties — but her face looks worn down in ways time alone couldn’t explain.

The kind of exhaustion that comes from fear that lasted too long. But she never talks about herself unless I push, and even then she hides the worst parts behind tired humor.

Stella is curled up in the corner, still asleep. She’s maybe seventeen, maybe nineteen — it’s hard to tell. She barely speaks unless she has to. But she clings to me sometimes in the dark when she thinks I’m asleep, like she wants to borrow strength but is afraid to ask for it.

I can’t blame her. I want to borrow strength from someone too.

Beatrice sits up and stretches her legs. Her joints crack loudly in the quiet room. “We need to conserve energy. They’ll probably bring food today.”

“Probably,” I echo.
Which means maybe.
Which means maybe not.

Yesterday they brought a single bowl of rice for the three of us and one bottle of water. I gave Stella most of mine. Watching her hands shake was worse than being thirsty.

I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes. My neck throbs again, reminding me of yesterday’s fight. Stupid. Reckless. Worth it.

Beatrice notices me flinching. “Does it still hurt a lot?”

“It’s fine,” I say automatically.

“Tito.”

“What? I’ve had worse.”

“You haven’t,” she says softly. “You really haven’t.”

The way she says it sends a chill up my spine. Like she knows what’s waiting for us here and I don’t.

I try to distract myself. “What do you think the time is? Morning-morning or almost afternoon?”

“Morning,” she replies.

“How do you know?”

She lifts her chin toward the tiny window. “Light’s too pale. Afternoons are harsher.”

Makes sense. I guess.

She nudges my knee. “Eat something.”

“There’s nothing to eat.”

“You didn’t finish your bread yesterday.”

“It was a crumb, Bea.”

“A crumb is still food.”

I let out a defeated sigh. She’s right. She usually is. I fish the tiny wad of bread from the pocket of my jeans. It’s squished and stale but edible. Barely. I break it in half and push the other half toward her.

She shakes her head. “Tito—”

“Take it.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re taking it, woman. I’m not arguing.”

She snorts, surprised. Then she takes it. We eat in silence. Small bites like animals that’ve learned the hard way that food doesn’t come when you call for it.

My brain drifts. It’s dangerous to let it drift here, but I can’t help it. I think about my mom. What she’s doing right now. If she’s called the police. If she thinks I’m dead. The idea of her crying because of me is worse than anything these men have done.

I blink hard. “Beatrice?”

“Yes?”

“If no one’s come… does that mean they stopped looking?”

She hesitates.
And that hesitation punches me straight in the chest.

“No,” she says quickly. “It means they can’t find this place yet.”

“But—”

“No. Tito, listen to me.” Her voice sharpens, suddenly fierce. “People don’t just stop looking for the ones they love. They might be lost. They might be confused. But they don’t stop.”

Her words land heavy, but not in a bad way. More like a blanket over my shaking thoughts.

“I just…” I swallow again, wincing at how dry my throat feels. “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. Waking up and pretending I’m fine.”

Beatrice moves closer until our shoulders touch. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I won’t break.”

“I might.”

She gives a small, sad smile. “Then I’ll hold you together until you don’t.”

Something hot builds in my chest — not tears, but something close. Something dangerous.

I look away. “I hate this place.”

“I know.”

“I hate those men.”

“I know.”

“I hate being scared.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

The word sweetheart almost undoes me.

We sit like that for a while — shoulder to shoulder, breathing slow, matching each other’s rhythm so the panic can’t find a way in.

The hours pass slowly. Stella eventually wakes up and curls against Beatrice’s side. No one comes. No footsteps. No meals. Nothing.

At some point my heart starts pounding for no reason. Loud. Heavy. Too fast. My thoughts start racing again, spinning out from under me:

What if no one finds us?
What if Jax isn’t looking?
What if my mom thinks I ran away?
What if this is my life now — waiting for something awful to happen?

I don’t realize I’m shaking until Beatrice cups the back of my head gently.

“Tito. Breathe.”

“I’m trying,” I choke out. “I’m trying, Bea, I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes. You can.”

Something inside me cracks, sharp and painful.