4. Escape
Chapter four
Escape
(Kiah)
F or five hours, I lie in a puddle of my own filth mixed with whiskey, every muscle in my body screaming with aches.
But I refuse to let him break me.
I’ve met a lot of bad men in my life but Nico definitely makes it into the top ten of that list.
That’s if Nico is even his real name.
Whatever his name is, he has no idea who he’s dealing with. I’m done playing nice.
It’s way past daybreak before the asshole finishes enough of my liquor to knock him.
He’s snoring loudly in my bed, passed out on his back with his arm hanging off the side, the half-drunk bottle of whiskey spilling out on the floor.
Passed out, Nico almost looks peaceful…serene. But there is nothing peaceful about the brute who forced me to wet myself with his cum still sticky on my face.
I’ll have to burn that bathrobe—it’s touched that animal’s body. He’s probably stretched it too.
Who does he think he is coming into my house, tying me up, and breaking my shit?
My eyes burn with disgusted tears, but I force them back. They won’t help me now. I’ve learned a long time ago that tears won’t save you. Nobody will save you if you can’t save yourself.
This is my chance.
I need to do something before he wakes up.
It’s been a few years since I’ve had to rely on my survival skills, but one doesn’t simply unlearn one’s training—not if you were the first woman ever to make it into the elite Green Berets unit of the Special Forces. You sure don’t become a First Class Sargeant by simply rolling over and playing dead whenever someone ties you up.
This is not how I die.
The storm howls outside, a fitting backdrop to my silent struggle.
I take one final, steadying breath, my chest tight with anticipation, and then I throw my body weight sideways, toppling the chair with a muffled thud.
The world spins, then settles as I find myself curled in a fetal position, the hardwood floor cool against my cheek.
My ears strain for any reaction from the bed.
Nothing.
Nico's rhythmic snores continue uninterrupted.
Relief washes over me, but I can't relax.
Not yet.
I clench my jaw, focusing all my energy on pressing my shins into the chair's legs.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I push, push, push.
The wood creaks in protest but holds firm.
Frustration bubbles in my chest. I need more leverage.
Tilting my feet forward, I take aim. My muscles coil, then release as I slam my heels back into the chair. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each impact sends shockwaves up my legs, but I bite back the pain.
On the fourth hit, a satisfyingly sharp crack splits the air. My heart stutters, head whipping around, but Nico remains lost to his dreams, the bathrobe splayed open across his chest.
The chaos outside masks my assault as I continue, methodically destroying the chair that binds me. My breath comes in controlled bursts, sweat stinging my eyes. Finally, the front legs splinter and give way.
A small victory, but I'm far from free.
At least I can move my legs now.
As I struggle, the zip ties bite into my wrists, a constant, throbbing reminder of my captivity. But I push the pain aside.
Focus, Kiah.
Maneuvering onto my knees, I survey the destruction around me. My once-peaceful cottage is now a battlefield of broken pottery and shattered art.
The knife from before is nowhere in sight. Nico must have learned from his previous lapse in judgment.
For a second, I consider the drawer housing my kitchen knives but I know it would be no use. My knives are blunt as shit. I usually do most of my cooking in the big kitchen at the back of the inn.
Plan B? My eyes lock on the shards of my mismatched plates: porcelain—sharp and deadly. That will have to do.
With my hands still bound behind my back, grasping a shard is a Herculean task. I twist and contort, desperation fueling each attempt.
At last, my fingers close around a triangular piece. Its edge bites deep, and I feel warm blood trickle down my palm. But I welcome the pain. It's proof I'm still alive, still fighting.
Gripping the makeshift blade with all my might, I saw frantically at the zip tie. The plastic resists, mocking my efforts.
Soon, my hands become slick with blood, making each movement treacherous. But I persist, driven by a primal need for freedom.
When the tie finally snaps, I allow myself a moment of silent triumph.
With grim determination, I attack the fishing line next. It gives way easier, loosening my bonds bit by excruciating bit.
At last, I wriggle free from the chair's embrace, my tortoiseshell prison.
I collapse onto the floor, lungs heaving, heart thundering against my ribs. Blood marks my path like crimson breadcrumbs.
The whole process was way easier in my head.
When I imagined freeing myself with a broken shard, I didn’t factor in the bleeding hands that now leave scarlet prints wherever they land.
But freedom is freedom.
Phase one—complete.
Standing slowly, I flex life back into my legs. Pins and needles give way to deep aches, but sensation returns. I roll my shoulders, testing mobility.
It’s time to move.
I tuck the shard into my back pocket and head to the bed.
Nico is still sleeping, though the whiskey bottle has dropped to the floor, tarnishing the wood even further with its spilled contents.
This should be the part where I gather my essentials and get away as quickly as I can.
For a moment, I consider the option. It’s damn attractive.
But there is nowhere to run in this storm.
I sigh as I realize I have no choice but to deal with the passed-out asshole in my bed.
Moving swiftly but silently, I dig through my art supplies to fish out a roll of untouched duct tape. It’s nestled among the glues and palette knives—hidden in plain sight.
Of course, I have duct tape.
Who doesn’t?
But I wasn’t going to tell Nico that.
Considering the alternative he came up with, I almost wish I did.
I stalk toward the bed, each step measured against Nico's heavy breathing and the storm's relentless drumming. The silver duct tape gleams in my hands like liquid moonlight.
His right wrist first. The tape makes a soft hiss as I stretch it, binding flesh to carved wood. My makeshift porcelain blade proves useful, slicing through the tape with surgical precision.
Nico mumbles in his drunken sleep, stirring just enough to make my pulse spike.
Left wrist next. The tape barely touches his skin when those storm-blue eyes snap open. One heartbeat of confusion. Then—
"What the fuck?" He tears his arm free, fingers clawing for my face, trying to force their way into my mouth.
I jerk back, muscle memory taking over.
The porcelain shard finds its mark in his shoulder, sinking deep with a wet crunch.
Blood wells up instantly, darker than expected. The alcohol in his system turns it thin, makes it flow faster.
Nico’s scream splits the air. He thrashes like a caged animal, but I'm already moving. My weight pins him as I capture his left wrist again, stretching it to the bedpost. The tape holds firm this time.
Nine years as a mercenary taught me things they don't cover in basic training. How to subdue. How to control. How to survive.
Focus, Kiah.
His legs come up, nearly catching my jaw. I dodge the wild kicks, my hands already moving to secure his ankles. The bed frame groans as I stretch him spread-eagle, the tape binding him tight against the inexpensive wood.
Blood from his shoulder stains my sheets crimson, but I barely notice. My world has narrowed to the rhythm of capture, the dance of predator and prey.
Only now the roles have reversed.
“You fucking whore!” The fury in Nico’s voice is unmistakable.
His body twists and turns as he continues to curse at me, but the duct tape holds firm.
“Just shut up!” I demand.
But he doesn’t listen.
The profanities die in his throat as I tape his mouth too, an uneven piece of silver stretching from cheek to cheek.
Finally, I step back, surveying my work.
Nico’s face is twisted in rage as he tugs at his restraints. But his attempts are futile.
“Two can play this game, little boy,” I whisper to my prisoner as I stroke a tousle of dark hair from his sweaty forehead. “You messed with the wrong woman.”
Satisfied that he isn't going anywhere, I quietly collapse in the armchair beside the bed, exhaling loudly as I wipe the sweat from my brow.
All tied up, Nico doesn’t look so scary. He looks quite vulnerable, in fact. I must say I prefer him this way—bound and spread.
I should probably deal with that shard in his shoulder, but the cut doesn’t look too deep; he’ll be fine.
If I have to play nurse right now, I might end up jamming that shard in deeper on purpose just because his face pisses me off.
I pick up what remains of the whiskey and take a long swig that burns through my throat to my belly. It’s a welcome sensation, though.
“Fucking hell.”
Sitting back, I study my bound captive as his muffled moans fill the air, his stormy eyes wild.
Desperation is a good look on him. Who knew?
We could have a lot of fun like this…
An unexpected flicker of lust sparks through my core, and I bite my bottom lip, looking away, out the window, to the storm, hoping for a distraction.
What the fuck?
How am I turned on by this psycho?
Though I know it’s not all about the tattooed devil tied to my bed. It’s the danger, the excitement of it all, that’s soaking my already wet panties with desire.
The adrenaline rush is undeniable.
I feel alive!
Jesus, Kiah. Stop it.
Trying to force the idea from my mind, I take another swig of the liquor.
Time to plan my revenge.
I have just the thing in mind…