The metal door creaked louder than she remembered. It echoed down the narrow stairwell like a warning shot, drawing goosebumps across her arms. The basement air was different tonight—damp, metallic, and colder than usual. Like the walls were holding their breath, listening.
Celina descended one step at a time, every nerve stretched taut. The dim light above flickered once, casting the corridor in a stuttering gray haze. Her boots struck the concrete floor with soft, deliberate steps as she reached the bottom. The silence was almost unnatural.
She stepped through the threshold—
And stopped.
Rafael was on the ground.
The tray of food she'd ordered brought to him lay spilled nearby—its contents smeared across the floor like a forgotten offering. The bowl had rolled to the side, leaking broth in a slow drip. Crushed bread. A bent spoon. A trail of dried sweat ran along the side of his neck.
He was curled on his side, one hand fisted in his shirt, groaning through clenched teeth. The other arm trembled as he tried to push himself upright, but failed and slumped back down.
"Shit," she whispered, rushing to him, the leather of her gloves creaking. "He's dying."
She dropped to her knees beside him, panic rising like bile. She reached for his shoulder, her hand brushing his burning skin—
In an instant, his body surged.
His arm snapped up, capturing her with brutal speed. Her vision spun.
A heartbeat later, her back slammed against the cold floor. Air whooshed out of her lungs. His weight came down on her like a crashing tide, his chest over hers, a leg pressing between her thighs. She gasped, shocked and pinned.
"Let me go—" she choked, trying to thrash beneath him, but it only made him tighten his grip. One hand trapped her wrist above her head, while the other flattened her shoulder to the ground. His body trembled—not from weakness, but from something feral, unstable.
He was burning. Hot like fire.
"You didn't have to do this," he growled. His voice was deep, unsteady, his words slurred. His eyes were wide, glassy, pupils blown wide with unnatural dilation. He searched her face with rage and something darker. "If you wanted it, you could've just asked."
Celina stared at him, stunned. "What the hell are you saying?"
She scanned his flushed face, his reddened skin, the sheen of sweat slicking his chest. His breath came in harsh, uneven pulls. Something was wrong. Something chemical. Not just rage.
Then her stomach dropped.
Drugged.
Her instincts screamed.
Then she felt it.
A hardness—thick, unmistakable—pressed low against her stomach. Not subtle. Not ignorable.
Her breath hitched, horror sweeping in a cold wave through her limbs. She froze, and then instinctively tried to shift away.
The movement only ground his hips harder into her.
Rafael groaned.
"If you wanted it, Princess," he murmured against her ear, his breath scalding her skin, "you just had to say please."
She stiffened beneath him, torn between fear and disbelief. Her pulse slammed in her ears. Her body betrayed her with heat and confusion, the friction and weight pressing in places she hated to acknowledge. A flush climbed her throat. She hated it. Hated him. Hated this.
He moaned again as her leg kicked, her body thrashing in defiance.
"Get off me!" she snapped.
But he didn't hear her. Or didn't care. His grip didn't falter.
His free hand slid to her collarbone, fingers trailing upward—
That's when she snapped.
She drove her knee upward, sharp and fast.
It connected.
Rafael let out a strangled cry, pain twisting his features as he rolled away, grabbing his side. His whole body jerked as the impact sank in, and he gasped like he'd been stabbed.
Celina scrambled back, legs sliding against the cold floor, chest heaving. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Her hands were shaking—no, her whole body was.
"Don't you ever touch me like that again," she spat, her voice like ice.
He groaned, curled into himself, muttering something low and broken that she couldn't understand.
Her back hit the far wall as she backed away, her boots sliding slightly. She pressed a palm against her chest as if it could calm the storm roaring inside her.
Her heart thundered. Her body still burned with the remnants of confusion and fear and something far more shameful.
She hated him for it.
And she hated herself more for reacting at all.
Her hand went to the doorframe. She gripped it, grounding herself.
She inhaled deeply, trying to regain control. Her limbs trembled, but she forced herself to straighten. One foot in front of the other, she took a cautious step forward, eyes fixed on him.
"Rafael," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "What happened to you?"
He let out a low groan and slowly sat up, wincing. Sweat dripped down his temple, and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. He moved sluggishly, every motion strained and heavy. But when he leaned back against the wall, her eyes involuntarily flicked downward—
And her stomach lurched.
There was no mistaking the tent pressing against his pants. Her breath caught.
It looked like—God. Like an arm. Just there.
She flinched, heat crawling up her neck.
He noticed.
He laughed, low and raw. "You know what happened," he rasped, voice rough around the edges.
She shook her head. "I didn't do anything. My sister, Cassia, she did something."
He tilted his head, eyes sharp despite the haze. "Come closer," he said, that same dangerous edge curling at his lips. "I'll show you exactly what she did."
She didn't move. Couldn't.
His eyes, once calculating, now burned with something animal. Lust, yes—but worse. Unpredictability. Hunger.
And in that moment, he looked like a tiger in a cage—with her as the prey.
"Fuck you," she spat, her voice trembling with fury.
Then she turned and ran.
She didn't look back. Didn't care if he crawled after her or shouted. She bolted out of the basement like the walls themselves were closing in, heart thundering in her chest, breath ragged as she pushed through the stairwell door and slammed it shut behind her.
Her hands were shaking. Her legs barely held her. But she kept going.
This wasn't him. Not the way he was before. Her sister had turned him into this… thing.
"She drugged him," Celina whispered to herself, horror tightening in her chest. "She fucking drugged him."
But that didn't make it less terrifying.
Because whatever was down there now, it wasn't just Rafael.
It was something that could break her if she let it.