Chapter4 Running would be a mistake

Maeve Thorne

I woke slowly, fighting through a thick fog of drugs and exhaustion.

When my eyes finally opened, my own wrecked reflection stared back at me from the mirrored chandelier above the bed. Pale face, swollen lips, neck and collarbones covered in fresh bite marks and fingerprints.

What did I do?

The memories slammed into me. The burning need. The way I had begged Silas Voss to fuck me against the shower wall like a desperate animal.

My body still throbbed with deep soreness between my legs, proof of how many times he had taken me before I passed out.

Shame burned through my chest.

Lira. The thought hit me like ice. She would be waiting for our morning call. If I missed it, she would worry herself sick, and her condition could spiral.

I had to get out of here.

I yanked the sheet around my chest and looked around. This was the Apex Sanctum. Luxurious. Cold. And there, sitting in a leather armchair near the windows, was Silas.

He wore a pristine white three-piece suit, looking every bit the untouchable ruler. Dark hair perfectly styled, white-gold cuff links glinting as he flipped through a folder. He hadn’t looked at me yet.

My heart pounded violently.

“Mr. Voss,” I forced my voice to stay steady despite how hoarse it was. “Good morning. Thank you for… helping me last night.”

He finally lifted his gaze. Those dark eyes scanned me with clinical detachment, like I was an object under inspection.

“Your clothes were sent for cleaning,” he said in that same low, commanding voice that had whispered filthy things against my ear hours ago. “Replacements are on the nightstand.”

I looked over. Dark gray athletic wear and running shoes—my exact size. The realization made my skin crawl. He had measured me. Catalogued me.

“I have urgent responsibilities,” I said, clutching the sheet tighter. “I need to return to the medical center.”

He watched me in silence. The weight of his stare made my cheeks burn with humiliation. Every bruise on my body felt like visible proof of how I had begged and fallen apart for him.

I hated how vulnerable I felt. I hated that part of me still remembered how safe his arms had felt when the drug was tearing me apart.

When I tried to stand, my legs gave out immediately. The room spun. Before I could crash to the floor, Silas was there. His hand closed around my shoulder with precise strength.

For a split second, I felt him tense. His breath hitched.

He released me just as quickly and stepped back, face once again unreadable.

“The dosage should have kept you out for twenty-four hours,” he said flatly. “You should rest.”

“I can’t,” I replied, voice tight. “Damian’s death investigation isn’t over.”

Silas studied me for another moment before nodding toward the bathroom. “Take your time.”

I grabbed the clothes and locked myself inside. The second the door clicked shut, I leaned against it, breathing hard. In the mirror I saw the full damage—his mouth marks on my throat, the redness from his stubble.

I looked claimed. Owned.

I splashed cold water on my face until it stung, trying to wash away the shame. It didn’t work. I pulled on the athletic set. The clothes fit perfectly, another reminder that nothing about me was private anymore.

When I stepped out, Silas stood at the window, back to me.

“It fits,” he observed quietly.

I didn’t reply. “Thank you for the clothes. I need to leave now.”

He turned slowly, eyes moving over me. “The attendant outside will escort you back to the staff corridors.”

I gave him a stiff nod and left before he could say anything else. The apartment was massive, filled with original art and expensive rugs that screamed absolute power.

The attendant in the hallway bowed respectfully and led me through the silent VIP section.

The moment I entered the staff corridors, the silence became suffocating. No morning crew. No voices. Just empty halls.

My right eyelid started twitching. That old warning sign.

Something was wrong.

My heartbeat spiked. I broke into a jog toward my quarters, desperate to call Lira before anything else went wrong.

I pushed open my door.

Two men were waiting inside.

They wore dark tactical uniforms with unfamiliar insignias. Both were large and visibly armed. They turned toward me in unison.

“Dr. Thorne?” the first one asked with a heavy accent.

My stomach dropped. “Who are you?”

The second man pulled out a document. “Special Investigations Unit. You are under arrest for the murder of Damian Clark. Come with us.”

Murder.

The word sucked all the air from my lungs. I thought of the switched medication, the neurotoxin residue on Damian’s neck, Elena’s screaming accusations.

They weren’t here for justice. They wanted a scapegoat. If they took me off this ship, I would never see a courtroom. I would disappear.

“I demand a lawyer,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You have no legal authority on this ship—”

“On the Elysium, we have all the authority we need,” the first man cut me off with a cold smile. “Don’t make this difficult, Doctor.”

I took one step back, eyes darting toward my medical kit. Before I could move, the second man grabbed my arm and yanked me inside.

The first man drew his pistol, suppressor already attached, and aimed it at my chest.

“Running would be a mistake.”

The sight of the gun froze me.

I stopped fighting.

The man smirked. “Good choice.”

Cold metal cuffs clicked around my wrists, biting into my skin. The finality of that sound shattered what was left of my composure. They grabbed my arms and dragged me out.

I caught one last glimpse of my tiny room—the photos of Lira taped above the bunk, the half-finished knitted rabbit on the shelf.

I closed my eyes as they pulled me down the empty corridor.

The handcuffs dug deeper with every step. My right eye wouldn’t stop twitching.

This is so fucked up!