Chapter 8
8
I woke suddenly, my senses on high alert.
It wasn’t the sharp jolt of waking from a nightmare, but the quiet, instinctual stillness of prey that knows a predator is near. My body was rigid, every muscle tensed as I tried to decipher where I was and what had woken me. The air around me was thick with the smell of dirt and rotted wood, so strong that I could taste it on my tongue. It was gritty, pungent, and clung to the back of my throat like a foul residue. Each breath I took only made it worse, the particles of dirt sifting into my nose and mouth, threatening to choke me.
I tried to move, but my hand met something solid and rough just inches from my face. The impact sent a jolt of realization through me, and I froze. My heart was thudding painfully in my chest, the only sound in the suffocating silence. Slowly, I raised my other hand, carefully feeling the space around me. My fingertips brushed against splintered wood, old and brittle yet confining. As I cautiously explored, the horrifying truth began to dawn on me—I was inside a box, a small, coffin-like enclosure barely wider than the span of my shoulders.
A breath shuddered out of me as the realization hit like a punch to the gut.
They had buried me alive.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
OH MY GOD.
Panic surged through me like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of my fragile composure. My breathing wanted to turn rapid, frantic, but I knew I couldn’t afford that. Hyperventilating would only waste what little oxygen I had.
I had to stay calm.
I had to think.
I forced myself to take slow, measured breaths, letting the adrenaline wash over me. I clung to the edge of fear, feeling its sharp, exhilarating rush. My boys wouldn’t actually hurt me—not like this. They knew I was an adrenaline junkie; they knew I lived for the thrill. They must have left me a way out, a clue, something. They wouldn’t have trapped me here without a way to escape.
Would they?
I was beginning to get lightheaded, the tightness in my chest growing more pronounced. I wasn’t sure if it was from the lack of oxygen or the panic attack I was barely keeping at bay. The walls of the box felt like they were closing in on me, the air growing thinner with each passing second.
I had to move.
I had to get out.
If they hadn’t left a trowel or something to dig with, that meant I must be in a shallow enough grave to claw my way out.
I had to be.
I trusted them enough to know that.
So, I pushed against the rotted wood, using all my strength to shove the coffin’s lid forward. Dirt sifted in, in heavy drifts with every slight movement, and I coughed as it landed in my face. When I had the space, I brought my knees to my chest and placed my bare feet against the lid. I kicked, and that, finally, made the most headway. I don’t know how long it actually took, but it felt like endless years.
With a final, desperate push, I broke free from the coffin, coughing up soil and gasping for breath. The fresh air was like a balm to my lungs, and I inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet, clean taste of it. One breath, two, three—I couldn’t get enough. I was alive. I was free. Relief flooded through me, the adrenaline high almost intoxicating as I savored the sensation of being above ground once more.
But my relief was short-lived.
Before I could fully regain my bearings, a large, rough hand clamped over my mouth, silencing the scream that rose in my throat. The pressure was suffocating, his grip iron-tight, and I could feel the weight of his body pressing down on me, pinning me back to the dirt. I struggled, thrashing against him, but my strength was sapped, my limbs weak from the effort it had taken to dig myself out.
His voice was low, a rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. “Not so fast, little saint,” Atley murmured in my ear, his lips so close, I could feel the scratch of his stubble against my skin. His breath was hot, brushing against the curve of my neck as he pressed his mouth to the shell of my ear. The scent of him—earthy, masculine—mingled with the lingering smell of dirt, grounding me in the terrifying reality of the moment.
My body trembled beneath him, a mix of fear and something else, something dark and thrilling. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins, heightening every sensation, every touch. I was caught between the urge to fight and the intoxicating pull of the danger, the edge of fear that had always been my addiction.
Atley’s hand tightened over my mouth, his grip firm but controlled, and I could feel the power he held in that single gesture. I was at his mercy, and we both knew it.
“Did you really think it would be that easy?” he asked, his voice a velvet purr that was both mocking and seductive. “Did you think we’d let you go so soon?”
My heart pounded against my ribs, the rhythm matching the relentless thrum of adrenaline in my veins. I tried to speak, but his hand muffled any sound I might have made. Instead, I could only stare up at him, my wide eyes meeting his in the dim light. There was a gleam in his gaze, a dark satisfaction that sent another shiver through me.
His hand slowly slid from my mouth, trailing down to grip my throat, his fingers curling possessively around my neck. He applied just enough pressure to remind me who was in control, his thumb brushing against the rapid pulse at my throat.
“We’re not done yet, little saint,” he whispered, his voice a promise of things to come.