by Eva Ashwood
Despite my efforts to control my breathing, I’m still drawing in air in short, chopping gasps. My lungs are burning. My wrists are burning. I can tell that the skin is raw, open in some spots from where I’ve struggled against the ropes. I try to move my legs and realize that they’re bound too, but the ropes tying my ankles to the chair legs feel a little looser than the ones around my wrists.
Good. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.
I shift in my chair, focusing.
Even if I do manage to escape, then what?
Alan has apparently been watching me, keeping tabs on me, probably via his fucking son. Even if I get out of this place, there’ll be a target on my back. I’ll never be safe, not for the rest of my fucking life.
My head spins, bile rising in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the fear. If I let myself think too hard about all that other shit, the other noise, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to get myself killed by making a stupid mistake before Alan can even touch me.
I just need to make it out of here. When I get out, I won’t be alone.
The others must have lived through last night. They have to be okay. And they won’t let me face this by myself.
“Stop it.”
I glance up, broken from my thoughts. Reagan is frowning at me in the dim light, her lips pursed in irritation. I glare at her, still twisting my wrists against the binds. As I do, I realize that when I scrape the ropes on my wrists against each other, the friction seems to loosen them a little.
Not much. But maybe it’ll be enough.
“I said stop it,” Reagan repeats, her gaze zeroing in on my movements.
Fuck. I don’t think she’s realized that my actions are strategic now, not just desperate, fruitless struggles. But she will if she looks too closely at what I’m doing. I need to distract her.
“Why did you do this?” I demand. If I can get her to talk, maybe she won’t notice that the ropes are getting looser. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do any of this?”
“What do you remember, Sabrina?” Reagan asks, instead of answering my questions. Her eyes narrow a little, and I think she’s trying to infuse her voice with the same quiet confidence Alan’s had earlier, although she’s not all that successful.
My wrists burn as I try to loop a finger beneath the ropes unsuccessfully.
“I know I was held prisoner,” I say. “Kept down here when I was a kid. Just like you were.”
She scoffs. “That’s not how it is, and you know it.” Her voice softens a little as she adds, “Alan isn’t like that. He isn’t evil.”
I want to scream at her, to tell her she’s fucking insane, but I let the comment slide. She’s seriously messed up, obviously suffering from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome or something, but I doubt I’ll make any headway with her by arguing with her about Alan.
She already tried to kill me twice just to get on his good side. I can’t really see her switching allegiances and choosing me over him.
“Maybe he isn’t evil, but he isn’t happy with you,” I say, shrugging casually as I glance up and catch her gaze.
Her lips press together. “You don’t understand how things are between us.”
“Don’t I?” I cock an eyebrow, still moving my hands subtly behind the chair’s back. “I was here when he told you he was pissed—pretty hard to misinterpret that.” I shake my head. “Can’t you see, Reagan? If you’re trying to win his approval, this didn’t work. It made things worse.”
She flinches, looking at me with wide eyes.
Holy fuck, she really is devoted to this guy.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She doesn’t see it, does she? What a monster Alan is. All she wants is his approval. His love.
“I wanted to help him,” she murmurs. “I am helping him.”
“Are you?” I press. “Just look what happened. You ruined everything. You heard him. Now he has a bigger mess to clean up, and it’s all your fault.”
Her eyes flash with hurt. “You don’t know anything about him or me, Sabrina,” she says, taking a step closer to my chair. “You’re just jealous. I know you are.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort. “Why would I be jealous of someone who’s been manipulated by an older man? Used by him like a fucking pawn?”
I think about the Sinners—about how each of them proved they’re truly on my side. About how the anger and distrust between us changed and grew into something real and solid. Something that feels a whole hell of a lot like…
My heart constricts in my chest, and I wrench my thoughts away from the men. I can’t think about that right now, can’t consider how deep my feelings for them go.
When I get out of this fucking place, then I’ll think about it. But not now.
“Alan needs me,” Reagan says emphatically, pulling my attention back to her. “He needs my help. Ever since you showed back up in town, I know he’s been worried. He’s too good of a man to do what needs to be done sometimes, and that’s why I had to step in. His wife never truly understood him, but I do. He respects me and wants me… and I’m his favorite.”
My stomach rolls. Jesus fucking Christ. He must’ve been spoon-feeding her lies since the beginning, since we were little girls. I know she has a fighting streak in her, I know she’s strong—she got the better of me in the woods, something not many people could manage to do. But Alan makes her weak. Why does she keep letting him use her?
But as a shy smile spreads across her lips, I realize why she keeps doing it. Why she wants his approval so damn much.
“Oh my god. You love him, don’t you?” I ask quietly.
Her gaze falters, her jaw clenching. She takes another step toward me, glaring as she bends to bring her eyes level with mine. Her face is only a few inches away, and the light that burns in her irises makes me queasy.
“It’s none of your fucking business,” she hisses. “You never understood. You could never—”
I don’t think. I just act. As Reagan leans in, I make a split second choice that could get me in a lot more shit if it doesn’t work. I swing my head forward and I headbutt her as hard as fucking possible. My skull screams with pain as our foreheads collide. Reagan stumbles backward with a choked cry, and I overbalance in my chair, pitching to the floor with a heavy thud.
The wooden frame of the chair cracks loudly, and my body pulses in agony as my cheek hits the cement, but something new pounds through my veins alongside the pain—adrenaline. I know I’ve only got seconds to work with, seconds to escape.
I thrash violently, taking advantage of the cracks in the wood. The wooden frame breaks apart even more, and I wrench my arms as hard as I can. The ropes are loosened without the chair to hold to, but they’re still a tangle of knots around my wrists and legs as I try to shove them off.
Escape, escape, escape.
The word pounds in my skull like a heartbeat as I finally manage to free one arm, then a leg. Reagan's moan of pain turns to a scream of fury as she launches herself toward me. The ropes slacken just in time as I push myself up off the ground and absorb the blow of her body against my shoulder.
She’s insane. Whatever the hell happened to her in this room, and in the years since she got out, it’s driven her crazy.
She fights like a wild animal, a feral cat—with fists and claws and teeth. But our fight last night took as much out of her as it did out of me. She’s weaker and sloppier. Maybe I am too, but there’s so much rage and adrenaline surging through me that I don’t feel any of my exhaustion.
I throw an elbow that catches her on the cheek, and as her head whips to the side, I lunge for the door, ignoring the burning pain in my body. When she scrambles after me, I kick her in the stomach, sending her hurtling backward.
Stay the fuck down, bitch.
Part of me wants to lose myself in my fury, in the rage that seems to live inside me all the time. I want to go after her like I went after Cliff that night. I want to keep hitting her until my knuc
kles are painted with her blood and I’m certain that she’ll never get back up again.
But I don’t. I don’t have fucking time. Alan could come back any minute, and if I’m still here when he walks in, I’ll be dead for sure.
So I satisfy myself with one more punch as Reagan tries to come after me again. I put every bit of my rage behind it, and she goes down hard, her body hitting the floor like a sack of bricks.
Not even bothering to look back at her, I wheel and lurch toward the door again. My fingers wrap around the handle, and when it turns in my grip, I sag with relief.
I wrench the door open and slam it behind me, turning the lock. Distantly, I think that Alan must have some faith in Reagan to leave her alone with me in an unlocked room, but I don’t have time to analyze what kind of fucked up relationship the two of them have.
I need to get out.
Who knows how many minutes—seconds—I might have. Who knows if Alan has a string of guards and thugs, if he has cameras everywhere, seeing everything.
So I run.
I run with everything left in me, even though my muscles and lungs are burning. I’m in some sort of bunker, and even though I barely remember this place, my body seems to remember it somehow—as if the layout has been imprinted on my soul. The tunnels are narrow, shadowy, twisting and turning in every direction. I have no fucking clue where I’m going, whether I’m going somewhere worse or getting closer to finding my way out, but I keep running.
Deep down, I know I’ve been here before. When I escaped last time, these were the tunnels I made my way through, my heart racing in my throat just like it is now.
So how did I get out before?
I keep moving, trusting my body and my suppressed memories to take me where I need to go. If I stop and think too hard about things, I’ll lose the instinct I’m following, the fuzzy image in my head that’s slowly becoming clear.
And then it hits me, razor sharp.
I know where I am.
3
Recognition floods me.
I barely understand how I know, but I have a sudden certainty that I know a way out.
My feet pound against the floor as I round a corner, then another one. The ceilings get a little lower, nearly brushing the crown of my head, but I’m in the right spot now. I have no fucking clue how I found it the first time, but sure enough, as the tunnel splits into two directions, I stop. Right between the two openings is a little metal grate high up on the wall. I scrabble at it with my fingertips, slipping my fingers through the holes and yanking as hard as I can.
I have to pull so hard that the metal cuts into my skin, and it feels like my arms might come out of their sockets—but finally, the grate gives way. I wrench it away from the wall and toss it aside. Maybe when I escaped the first time, I paid more attention to stealth, maybe I covered my tracks. But I don’t have time for that now.
Heaving myself up, I crawl into the vent that the grate was covering. I barely fit. My hips snag a little bit, making my breath catch in my throat, but I push myself through, not letting myself think about the narrow walls that push in from every side. A child could easily fit, but it’s been nearly ten years since I last escaped from this fucking madman.
One small movement at a time, I drag my body through the vent. The metal is freezing, biting underneath my hands, but I push and push and push. I push through the darkness, through the never-ending spiral of memories that threaten to overwhelm me.
I won’t go down without a fight. I won’t go down without the last word. I won’t go down letting monsters like Alan manipulate and control me like he does to Reagan.
For a terrifying moment, I’m certain that whatever path my instincts are leading me on is wrong. That I’ll end up trapped in the duct, lost forever in this dark space.
The cool breeze of fresh air hits my face seconds before I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Pale dawn light filters through the tops of trees and through another grate. The mountain breeze is like a breath of life as I suck it into my burning lungs. The grate is rusted, and I have to beat on it to open it, but when it pops off, I haul myself up and out of the vent, collapsing on the ground.
No. Keep going. Don’t stop.
I want to stay here. To just lie here until everything stops. I don’t think I can go any farther, I’m so fucking strung out and exhausted. But raw determination forces me up from the ground, my broken skin scraping against branches and thorns, dirt clotting with the blood on my face. It pushes me to run again.
Run.
The woods are quiet, but I can imagine footsteps behind me. Following me. In my mind’s eye, I can practically see Alan’s cool blue eyes staring at me. I can feel his hands on me, dragging me back down, down, down. My heart pounds in my ears, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of Alan’s voice in my mind. I can hear the cold smoothness of his voice, promising to “clean up” the mess Reagan made.
But I can also picture Gray, fighting for me. Elias fighting for me. Declan fighting for me. And if they can fight for me, I can fucking fight for them.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here. To find them.
Bile rises in my throat. My stomach cramps. I could fall over and collapse into myself, heave up anything that’s left in my stomach from the past twelve hours, but I’m pushing myself beyond my body’s weaknesses. It’s my mind fighting for me now, convincing my bones and muscles that there’s still a little bit left.
When I suck in a shallow breath, it smells like a dying fire, something burnt with a chemical edge. I recognize the place where Reagan had Max tied up, the place where the guys fought so hard to get us away, and the recognition gives me another push of strength. The sky is quickly growing lighter with the orange-pink sunrise, and I know they’re not waiting at the car for me anymore, but it also gives me hope that I don’t see any bodies gathered around the tree.
They’re alive. The fire didn’t trap them. Didn’t kill them.
My run doesn’t slow, not even when I begin to remember the path that we followed last night. Cutting through some trees, I see tire marks where the car was parked.
I buckle over when my shoes hit the pavement, the world spinning around me in a dizzying mess of color and trees and the sky. I’m about to faint, but I have just enough consciousness left to register the hum of a car turning around the bend. I have just enough madness left to throw myself out in front of it and hope to hell they don’t hit me.
The driver slams on his brakes, a horrible screeching sound filling the silent morning air. My heart pounds in my chest as I slam my hands on the hood and then scramble around to the passenger side door. I yank it open and slide inside, planting my ass in the seat before the driver has time to protest.
“Please,” I mutter, turning to look at the man behind the wheel. I know I look wild. Insane. Possessed by something. But I don’t give a damn about what I look like. All I care about is that we need to move. Now. “I need help.”
The driver, a young guy who doesn’t look much older than Gray, looks at me with wide eyes. I can feel him taking in the bruises, the blood, the sweat. The dirt. The scratches. God knows what else he can see that I don’t feel.
“I need… help,” I repeat, stuttering out the words with each breath.
“I can see that,” he says slowly. “Are you okay?”
He looks back out to the forest where I came from as if wondering what monster is hidden in there. I’m not sure what he makes of me, but I can’t just tell him the truth.
Yes, my best friend was kidnapped, so I tried to rescue her. But then I got kidnapped myself by a crazy psycho who’s in love with a man old enough to be her father. As it turns out, I ended up in this bunker I spent most of my childhood in, controlled by a man who owns most of this town.
“Just drive,” is all I say.
Whatever he sees in my face, it’s enough to keep him from asking more questions. He just nods, looking thoroughly freaked out, and puts the car into drive. I want to faint with re
lief when the car pulls away from that damned forest. From the bunker. From Reagan and Alan.
“I need to borrow your phone,” I blurt.
The guy doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he tugs a phone out of his front pocket. The car swerves slightly as he glances at me, and he faces forward again as he hands the cell phone to me.
As soon as it’s in my hands, I punch in the number, praying that I remember it right.
The phone rings once.
Please pick up.
Twice.
Please.
“Where the fuck do you have her?” Gray growls from the other end, his voice forceful and angry.
My heart stops beating for a second. I stop breathing.
Fuck. I didn’t realize until right now just how badly I needed to hear his voice.
“Gray, it’s me.” My voice cracks on the words. “It’s Sophie. I got away, I’m…”
My throat catches. For the first time since Reagan took me, tears burn at the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill over.
“Oh fuck, Sophie.” The hardness melts away from Gray’s voice, replaced by a relief so palpable I can feel it through the phone. Then he practically growls, “Where are you? What happened—”
“I got away,” I tell him, trying to find a little bit of the numbness I’ve relied on for so long inside myself. “I found a way out.”
I’m losing my ability to call it up like I used to, to turn off my emotions. Maybe that’s a good thing, but right now, I really fucking need to keep it together. When I’m not in the car with a stranger, I’ll let myself cry. But not yet. Not until I know I’m safe.
He curses. “What the fuck happened?”
I glance at the guy next to me. He’s keeping his gaze purposefully on the road and not looking at me, pretending he’s not listening. But he sure as shit is. I have no interest in protecting Alan Montgomery, but my own self-preservation instinct tells me not to just blurt out the full story in front of this guy.
