Chapter 17
Mia
Day five of my captivity and I still haven’t caved. Nor will I. The zip ties have left raw, bleeding marks around my wrists. I’ve been moved from the chair to a narrow cot at night, my hands secured to the metal frame but otherwise left alone in the darkness. Small mercies I suppose.
Craven has been true to his word about waiting for the week before starting his ‘real work,’ as he calls it, but his psychological games have already been relentless. He sits across from me for hours, describing in graphic detail what he plans to do to me when his countdown ends. Sometimes he cleans his tools in front of me, polishing each one until it gleams in the firelight. Other times, he simply watches me, his pale eyes never blinking, like a snake studying its prey.
I’ve been trained to withstand psychological torture, pain and fear, but the waiting—the dreadful anticipation he’s cultivating—is its own special form of hell. Beating me to a pulp would be preferred over this.
Two days left. That’s what he told me this morning before stepping out for supplies. Two days before Matheson gives him free rein.
I’ve made three escape attempts so far. The first nearly worked—I’d managed to free my hand enough to reach a knife he’d carelessly left too close. I was sawing through the second zip tie when he returned unexpectedly. That earned me a split lip and tighter restraints.
The second attempt involved trying to break the chair I was tied to. Craven caught me mid-action and merely laughed, amused by my desperation.
The third attempt was last night. I’d been rubbing the zip tie on a loosened screw in the frame of my cot. Hoping that I could weaken it enough to break it. I’d almost freed one hand when he appeared in the doorway, watching silently. He didn’t stop me, didn’t approach—just stood there until I gave up, my spirit breaking a little more under his unwavering gaze.
“Connor,”
I whisper into the empty cabin, my voice cracking from disuse. “Please find me.”
The crunch of tires tells me that Craven is back from wherever he was off to, and I feel like begging him to just end my misery.
The cabin door slams open, letting in a blast of cold air that makes the fire flicker wildly in the fireplace. His massive silhouette fills the doorway, his breathing heavy and uneven. Something about him is different tonight. The disciplined control, the detachment he’s maintained all week has disappeared, replaced by something raw and primal. And I can smell the booze on him. The fucker is half drunk.
“Change of plans,”
he slurs, tossing his bag carelessly aside instead of arranging his tools with his usual precision. His eyes rake over me, lingering on my body in places that make my skin crawl. “I’m tired of waiting.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as he stalks toward me, unbuckling his belt every step he takes. The metallic clink of the buckle echoes in the cabin like a death knell. I feel like I’m going to vomit, knowing that I don’t have the strength to fight him off.
“The Director said a week,”
I reminded him, hating the tremor in my voice. “You still have two days.”
Craven laughs, a sound like gravel being crushed underfoot. “The Director isn’t here.”
He looms over me, close enough that I can smell whisky on his breath. “And I’ve been patient long enough.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing my jaw with bruising force, tilting my face up to his. “You know, in my line of work, you learn to read people. And you, Mia? You’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”
I try to jerk away, but his grip only tightens. “Don’t touch me,”
I spit, directing my fear into rage.
“Or what?”
he taunts, his other hand moving to the zipper on his jeans. “Your husband can’t save you. No one knows where you are. It’s just you and me out here, all alone.”
My mind races, searching desperately for a way out. I need to buy time, create an opportunity. Craven is strong, but he’s also arrogant—and right now, he’s not thinking clearly.
“Wait,”
I gasp, forcing myself to soften, to appear vulnerable. “Please... not like this.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise, suspicion momentarily replacing the desire on his face. “What are you saying?”
I swallow my disgust and meet his gaze. “If this is happening... at least untie me. Let me touch you too.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to laugh in my face. But then I see it—that flicker of male vanity, of ego. The thought that he might be irresistible, even to his captive, is too tempting to dismiss.
“Nice try,”
he says, but there’s hesitation in his voice. “You think I’m stupid enough to free you?”
“I want to be able to touch you too,”
I whisper, making my voice husky with false desire. “And… and... I can’t spread my legs for you if they’re tied together.” The lies taste like acid on my tongue, but I keep stringing them along. “Like you said, we’re alone out here. No one has to know.”
I see him wavering, lust battling with caution. His hands move to the zip ties on my ankles, hesitating. “You try anything,”
he growls, “and I’ll make you wish you were dead.”
“I understand,”
I murmur, trying to look submissive, pliant.
He produces a knife from his boot, the blade glinting in the firelight as he cuts through the plastic binding my ankles first. The relief is immediate, blood rushing back into my numb feet. He pauses, studying my face for any sign of deception. When he sees none, he cuts the bindings at my wrists.
I resist the urge to rub my raw wrists, and instead, I just sit there. Appearing weak, non-threatening, is crucial right now.
“There,”
he says, tucking the knife away. “Happy now?”
I nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Come closer,”
I whisper.
He leans in, his breath hot on my face, one hand still gripping his belt. I raise my trembling hands to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment—a moment of vulnerability, of misplaced trust.
That’s when I strike.
My right hand shoots up, thumb driving hard into his windpipe while my left grabs the back of his bald head, yanking it down to meet my rising knee. The crunch of cartilage is sickeningly satisfying as his nose breaks under the impact.
He staggers backward, choking and sputtering, blood streaming down his face. I don’t give him time to recover. Five days of fear and helplessness fuel my attack. Ignoring the tremor in my knees, I launch myself from the chair.
We crash to the floor together, my momentum carrying us onto his duffle bag. I pounce on it, unzipping the zipper as metal instruments clatter around inside it. My fingers close around a scalpel just as Craven recovers enough to throw me off.
I hit the ground hard, the air knocked from my lungs as he looms above me, blood dripping from his shattered nose, rage twisting his features into something barely human.
“You bitch,”
he wheezes, one hand at his throat. “I’m going to take my time with you now.”
In an instant, he’s on me, his breath hot and ragged against my ear, and I no longer have any fight left in me. His hands tear at my underwear, the lace biting into my skin before it finally gives way. He flips me onto my stomach, and I feel the cold hardwood floor beneath my cheek. He pins me there with his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair. His other hand fumbles with his jeans, the clinking of the metal buckle on his belt echoing in my ears as he struggles to free himself from his pants.
He forces my legs apart, and I feel the rough denim of his jeans. With a knee between my thighs, he pushes down, and I feel the hard floor on my thighs. His heavy breathing fills the air.
Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision as images of Connor, on our wedding day flit through my mind. I push them away and concentrate on a speck of dust on the floor, it’s so minuscule, but it’s something to focus on to block out what’s happening. I brace myself, waiting for the inevitable pain. But before he can thrust into me, a voice booms through the room, sharp and clear.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”