LENA
Time didn't move here.
It stretched long and thin and full of dread, like the moments between lightning and thunder. Sometimes I thought I heard the ticks of a clock, slow and deliberate, only to realize it was my heartbeat. Or Marcus's footsteps.
Or nothing at all.
The chains were too tight again.
Iron cuffs bit into my wrists, pinning my arms above my head in a way that stretched my joints and pulled at every muscle. My skin was raw, angry. Blood had dried in narrow trails down my arms, caking in the crook of my elbows. I couldn't feel my fingers. The cuffs had been tightened overnight—again—and the iron had grown heavier. Colder. I'd stopped fighting the weight hours ago. Maybe longer.
I tried to stand upright, to shift the pressure off my shoulders, but my legs were shaking. My knees threatened to buckle with every shallow breath. The shackles around my ankles clanked softly, the rusted iron biting new wounds into skin that was already flayed thin from struggling.
