Day twenty is upon us and our time is running out.

Earl didn’t feed us or give us water the previous day—all he did was allow us to use the bathroom, brush our teeth, and then I was subjected to a beating with his leather belt, amplifying my already broken body.

It was a punishment for my ‘misbehavior’.

I sucked up giant handfuls of water as I brushed my teeth over the sink, so I won’t be dying from dehydration just yet, but I feel my body getting weaker every minute.

I keep thinking about how the couple before us only made it twenty-two days, and I wonder if that’s the deadly number. Then I force myself to push those unproductive thoughts away because it’s not day twenty-two. It’s day twenty.

We’re okay.

Dean and I are in the middle of discussing a possible escape plan during our bathroom break later, when those boots make their way down the stairs and stomp over to us, each step sending a wave of nausea right through me.

“Is my kitten ready for her doggie’s bone?” Earl snarks, then bursts out into hoarse laughter, entirely amused with his sick, stupid pun. “Hope my pets enjoy it today—might be the last time. My own dogs are hungry for some fresh meat.”

Oh, God.

I hold back my terrified cry.

It’s not over. We’re okay. It’s not over.

Dean approaches me after his restraints are removed, looking weary and haggard and so unlike the man I once knew. I used to loathe that mischievous gleam in his eyes, the one that loved to instigate me and push my buttons—now, I would do anything to get it back.

Something tells me that even if we manage to make it out of here alive, I’ll never see those eyes again.

Earl barks his orders from the other side of the basement, as if we don’t know what to do by now. He waves his shiny gun around, but I don’t hear any of the words coming out of his mouth. Everything sounds muffled and far away, like I’m underwater.

I’m only focused on Dean.

Nothing else exists.

Dean closes in, reaching for my wrist and beginning his slow, circular motions over my skin. He then presses his opposite hand to my chest and lets his forehead fall against my own. I inhale a sharp gasp, not expecting the gesture. There is something intimate about it—something different. I force my eyes shut because I find myself unable to look at him while we’re in this strangely personal position.

Odd, considering he’s been inside me. It doesn’t get more personal than that.

He pushes his hand against the crown of my breast, but not in a sexual way. He sighs so deep it resonates right through me. “It’s still beating,” he whispers, his words a soft kiss against my lips. “As long as it’s beating, you’re okay.”

With his hand to my heart and his thumb trailing along my pulse point, he leans in. I meet him halfway, eager to feel his warmth, desperate for that human contact—that connection. His tongue invades me, and our kiss feels hungrier than usual. It’s more than routine. It’s more than survival. Maybe he’s craving that connection just as much as I am.