Chapter 10 Athena
ATHENA
Itwist my wrists against the ropes, the fibers rubbing against my skin, making them feel raw. My arms feel tired, but I don't stop. I wiggle, jerk, twist again.
Dimitri's been gone for nearly ten minutes, enough time for me to work at these restraints.
He thinks he's so smart. So capable. But men always underestimate women like me.
I rotate my wrists again, and the rope around my left wrist loosens. Not much, but enough.
I pull, ignoring the pain, and my hand slips free.
"Yes," I say, triumph flooding through me.
My heart races as I fumble with the knot on my other hand. Once both hands are free, I scramble to untie my ankles and nearly fall over in the process.
I'm free in under a minute.
I stand, legs trembling as blood rushes back into them. The borrowed clothes hang loose on me, and I have to roll the waistband twice to keep them from falling.
I creep to the door where Dimitri exited and press my ear against it. Nothing.
No footsteps. No voice.
Where the hell is he?
I try the handle. Locked from the outside.
"Fuck."
I spin and rush toward the kitchen, every board creaking under me like it's announcing my escape.
There's a window above the sink. It's my way out.
I run over to it and unlatch it, pushing it up. It's hard at first and moves slowly. I push harder and it slides up.
I freeze, listening for anything.
Nothing.
I push at the screen, but it's fixed firmly in place. No time for finesse. I step back, looking for something, anything, to break it with.
My elbow bumps something. I turn to see a lamp on a side table.
I grab it, yanking the cord from the wall. The base is heavy ceramic.
I throw it at the screen. The lamp shatters against the window frame, ceramic shards flying everywhere. The screen tears but doesn't break completely.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
If he wasn't making his way back here, he's definitely coming now.
I use my hands to tear at the damaged screen, ripping it further until there's a hole big enough for my body. Without hesitation, I hoist myself onto the counter, my knee hitting the faucet as I wiggle through the opening and tumble out, landing with a painful thud on the hard dirt outside.
The fall knocks the wind out of me. For a moment, I can only lie there, struggling to breathe, staring up at the star-filled sky.
Get up. Get moving. NOW.
I scramble to my feet and wipe my palms on my pants to remove the dirt.
There are trees and olive groves everywhere. I don't know where to go, so I just start running.
The ground is rough beneath my bare feet. Rocks and sticks dig into my soles, but I don't slow. I can't. The borrowed sweatpants slip on my hips with each stride. I grip them with my left hand to hold them up without breaking my pace.
I hear no sound behind me. No footsteps.
Maybe he didn't hear. Maybe he left? Maybe. But maybe I'm fast enough to get away.
Then I hear it.
"Athena!"
His voice is dark and dangerous and sounds like it's coming from every direction.
I run faster, branches hitting my face as I weave between trees, vineyards, bushes, and whatever else is out here.
"Athena!" he yells again, and fear jolts through me like electricity. I push harder, my legs moving faster.
I can now hear footsteps.
Fuck. He's close.
The moonlight barely illuminates my path. I stumble through shadows, hands outstretched to prevent crashing into tree trunks. My lungs burn. My feet throb. But stopping isn't an option.
Behind me, I hear nothing now, but the silence is worse than footsteps. Dimitri is out there. Hunting me.
A branch snaps somewhere to my right. I jerk left immediately, changing direction. My hip slams into a tree trunk, and I cover my mouth to hold back the scream of pain.
I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. Away from him is all that matters. And even if I can't hear him, can't see him, I'm not stupid enough to think I've lost him.
The floor dips suddenly and I lose my balance. I tumble down a short embankment, leaves and twigs tangling in my hair. I land in a small pocket of dirt formed by the exposed roots of a massive tree.
I curl into the small space, trying to quiet my breathing. My chest heaves, lungs desperate for air. I press a hand over my mouth again, forcing myself to take slower breaths through my nose.
Calm down. Calm down.
I strain to hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
Nothing. Just the soft rustling of leaves in the night breeze.
Did I lose him? God, I hope so.
I keep listening.
Nothing.
I suck in air, remembering those breathing exercises they tell us before photo shoots when you have to walk out half-naked to a room full of people.
But my mind won't calm down.
It's not just fear that's pressing down on me. It's exhaustion.
Not just from running tonight, though that was bad enough, but from something deeper. Something I've been doing for years.
From jobs that meant nothing. From a legacy I could never live up to.
When my mother died, she took more than herself. She took the last piece of the life I knew how to live. Because up until then, I just wanted to rise up to her status. Or at least, my own secondhand version of it.
When she was alive, I lived with the secret realization that I'll never be as good as her, as popular, or as adored as she was.
And when she died, I didn't know who the fuck I was anymore. I mean, if she wasn't there to make the calls, force the introductions, then I was just another girl in the modeling world.
And maybe that's why I agreed to do this.
Why I let a stranger hand me a vial of poison, give me a target, and some convincing story, and said yes.
Because if I couldn't be someone meaningful in my own right, maybe I could be someone angry.
Someone avenging. Someone with a purpose, even if it was fucked up.
I could finally be something more than wasted potential in perfect makeup.
But I couldn't even do that right.
I didn't kill Dimitri.
Not because I had mercy, but because I didn't know how.
Because deep down, I've been pretending I'm dangerous when really, I'm just desperate.
How did living in my mom's shadow turn into running from a killer?
This chaos with no outcome, this performance of revenge stitched together with desperation, it's exhausting, and it's not the life I thought I'd be living.
Crack.
A twig snaps somewhere to my right.
I press deeper into my hiding spot, trying to make myself as small as possible.
"I can hear you breathing," he says, his voice terrifyingly close.
My fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and my mind chooses the latter.
I bolt, scrambling out of my hiding area. I make it three steps before he crashes into me. We go down hard, rolling across the ground.
I thrash against his iron grip that pins me.
"Get off me!" I scream.
He flips me over, straddling my hips, one hand wrapping around my throat, holding me down.
I claw at his arm and he doesn't even flinch.
"Done running?" he growls.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls me to my feet, and before I can find my balance, he slams me against a nearby tree. The bark digs into my back. His body presses against mine, caging me in.
The hand at my throat tightens just slightly.
"That was stupid," he says, his face inches from mine.
I can see the sharp planes of his face now. His blue eyes are dark, and there's a scratch on his cheek that wasn't there before.
"Letting you catch me," I gasp against the pressure on my windpipe, "was stupid."
His mouth curves into a half-smile.
I look down and see he's holding his knife in his free hand.
I'm not scared.
I should be, but I'm not.
I'm on fire.
Every nerve ending. Every inch of skin. Hyperaware of the man pressed against me, pinning me in place.
I want to scream. Slap him. Pull him closer. My body doesn't know the difference anymore.
He drags the flat of the blade up my ribs, over my collarbone, until the tip rests against the pulse point beneath my jaw.
I should be terrified, but there's something else, something hot pooling low in my belly. My skin prickles with awareness of every place our bodies touch. My skin doesn't know if it wants to run or lean in, and I hate him for making me feel it.
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there.
He releases his grip on me and takes a step back, the cold blade leaving my skin.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me forward.
"Walk."
I stumble, then catch myself.
Without thinking, I say, "You're pretty shitty at tying people up, you know."
The words pour out of me as my nerves force me to make a joke.
His expression doesn't change.
Then he laughs. It's rough and low. "You think that was an accident?"
I stop and look at him. "You're saying you let me escape?"
He comes up to me. "You thought I was being nice when I tied you up, Alepoudítsa?" He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Letting the restraints be loose wasn't for you. It was to see what you'd do."
"Oh, a fucked-up test."
"Keep walking."
"Did I pass, Sir?" I say sarcastically as I start my pace back to the house.
"Barely."
"Lucky me," I say under my breath.
But I feel it.
The shift.
He didn't kill me. He had every reason to, but he didn't.
And I'm still mad. I still hate him. I still think he's a monster.
But deep down, in the part of me I've buried beneath bitterness and grief, I'm glad he caught me.
Because for the first time in years, being caught feels like clarity.
And I don't know what that says about me, but I'm not ready to run again.
Not yet.