Bound in Silence

Chapter Twenty-three

Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains scenes of physical restraint, emotional manipulation, and violence. It may be distressing or triggering for readers sensitive to themes of abuse, coercion, and bodily violation. Please prioritize your well-being and proceed with caution.

TRIXIE

The pain came before the waking.

Deep, throbbing. Like my insides had been torn out and stitched back together wrong. My limbs were heavy, my mouth dry. There was a ringing in my ears, soft at first, then louder, like the world was trying to push its way back into my skull.

My eyes fluttered open.

At first, all I could see was the ceiling—familiar, almost. The crack in the plaster. The faint water stain in the corner.

No.

No, no, no.

My breath caught as the panic came rushing back.

I tried to move, but my arms didn't budge.

I turned my head slowly. My wrists were cuffed to the headboard, metal biting into raw skin. My legs... God. My legs were spread, ankles secured to either side of the footboard.

A sob slipped out of me.

No.

I looked down.

Bra still on. Barely. My jeans were gone.

Where was I—?

Jasper's room at the gang house.

His bed.

Shit.

The sheets beneath me were damp with sweat and blood. My thighs ached. Everything ached.

Tears welled in my eyes again, hot and fast, as my breath started to come in shallow gasps. I didn't know how long I'd been out. Minutes? Hours? Fuck!
Then my stomach falls as my eyes land on him.

Patrick. He's there, standing over me—looming like a shadow on the edge of the bed, his form a blur at first. Then, I realize he's leaning down, too close, too intimate.

He's not even paying attention to me, his focus on something else, like he's trying to get something done without a care for what I'm feeling.

Oh my god he's doing the abortion.

I whimpered without meaning to.

His head shot up.

Eyes wide. Bloodshot.

"Shit," he whispered. "You're awake."

I flinched. Tried to curl away, but the cuffs jerked me back into place.

"Don't," I said, voice trembling. "Don't touch me. Please don't."

My foot jerked against the restraint—again, again—heel scraping against the bed as I pulled with everything I had.

"Please," I cried, tears streaking down my cheeks, hot and fast. "Patrick, please. Don't do this. I—I want to keep it. I want my baby."

My voice cracked, raw and hoarse.

"I don't want this. Please don't—please don't take this from me."

He paused.

His hands trembled slightly. His eyes—God, his eyes—they didn't meet mine at first, but when they did, I saw it.

Guilt.

Real guilt. The kind that sat deep and heavy behind his lashes. His jaw clenched like he was trying to swallow the shame. He looked like he wanted to say something, to stop, to undo all of this—but nothing comes out from his slightly parted lips.