Mariana’s Pov

A gasp.

A groan.

A wince.

A strained grunt.

I don’t know which comes first when my eyes flutter open. I find myself in a surprising position: curled up on a cold, roughly plastered floor, in a dimly lit room, the sound of dripping water echoing off the concrete walls. 

When my head pounds with a dull ache, I am quick to sit up, a pained wince leaving me, panic coursing through my veins.

I’m afraid, I really am.

I want to fight for a way to escape, I really ...