Chapter 21 Aurora
AURORA
“Maggie is still sick.” Liam doesn’t meet my gaze in his reflection, taking a look at himself in the dresser mirror as he gets ready to leave the penthouse.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she seriously ill?”
The look he gives me—like I’m crazy for asking—doesn’t really come as a surprise. “It’s a bad cold. I’d rather she rest at home than prolong things by coming to work.”
Shocking. He actually shows sense sometimes. Though that doesn’t make up for his lack of judgment when it comes to certain members of his team. “I hope she feels better soon.”
“So do I, since that means one more person to keep an eye on you.” Yes, because that’s what everything is about, right?
It’s like he’s trying to make me lose my temper this morning.
I won’t, because the next thing I know, he’ll take away my TV privileges today.
It’s sad how much I’m looking forward to a little slice of normalcy again.
“I’m still allowed to hang out in the living room, though, right?”
The son of a bitch has the nerve to act like he’s thinking it over. Rage burns in my core, but I’m careful to keep it hidden, or at least as hidden as possible. “I don’t see why not. I moved one of the guards up to the penthouse, though, so don’t get any ideas.”
Gee, I would never. He’s so damn pleased with himself, isn’t he? “I’ll be a good girl,” I promise.
“You’d better. Because this doesn’t change anything.” Like he needed to remind me. He’s so predictable sometimes, it’s almost boring. As if sex—no matter how mind-blowing—could guarantee me TV time.
Although now that I think about it, he might have always planned on letting me watch TV.
Sex was just a bonus. Oh well. I can’t think too much about it, or else I’ll lose it.
For now, I’ll accept a little more normalcy today.
If I’m lucky, I might even get to walk around, get an idea of the cracks in the armor.
There have to be some I can take advantage of, right?
Step one: waiting until Liam is gone before going to the kitchen to get a protein bar from the cabinet.
There’s a guard seated at the table. It’s almost absurd how big he is compared to the chair.
Like a grown-up sitting at a little kid’s desk.
It’s not like I thought I’d have a chance at overpowering anyone around here, but the size of him makes me even less convinced.
Still, I won’t rule out the idea. I can’t afford to rule anything out. “Hi,” I murmur as I pass. He grunts like he is bothered by my voice, before he busies himself on his phone. Distracted. Something else to keep in mind.
“You’re Bruno, right?” Because all these guys haven’t seemed that different from each other. The same thickness, the same quiet, menacing aura. They even have the same short, uncomplicated names.
He only grunts again. It sounds like a yes. His eyes flicker toward me, his gaze predatory. Bruno has a gun in his waistband. I make a mental note of that while I grab my breakfast and take it out into the living room.
Can I get around him? It doesn’t matter whether or not I can if I can’t use the elevator to get downstairs.
That means having the code. Unless there’s some other way to exit, but that would mean doing a lot of looking around.
I don’t know how much of that I can get away with.
And if I get caught, it will probably mean getting locked up again—and Liam would find out, meaning I could kiss my hopes of freedom goodbye.
I need to think of something. The gun in Bruno’s waistband keeps coming back to me, but how would I get it off him?
I must be out of my mind, even thinking I can get away with this, but maybe it’s crazier to stick around and hope things will magically get better.
Liam opened my eyes to something new when he told me about the things he went through when he was younger.
Sometimes, you either have to kill or be killed.
You have to be willing to take a chance if you want to save yourself.
I have to take the chance. Even if it means doing something I never imagined I would ever have to do.
First, I make sure I’m dressed correctly.
A little while after eating breakfast, I go back to the bedroom and close the door, taking off my leggings, pulling on an extra two pairs of underwear over the pair I’m already wearing.
Then the leggings go back on, along with a pair of yoga pants on top.
I do the same thing with my socks, adding an extra pair before sliding into running shoes.
Finally, I add a sports bra on top of the bra I’m already wearing, a tank top, a T-shirt, and then finally a zip-up hoodie.
Now, at least I have more than one set of clothes to take with me if I manage to escape.
Not if. When? Because I don’t have a choice.
I release a shuddering, anxious breath, catching my eye in the mirror over the dresser. There’s no going back. Once I take the first step, I have to keep going. Like I’m on a runaway train. No slowing down, no changing my mind. Do I have it in me to go through with this?
I can’t even question it. I just have to believe I do. Raking my fingers through my hair, I pull it back in a ponytail. Here goes nothing.
Bruno is still at the kitchen table when I wander in. “Would it be okay if I fix some lunch? That protein bar didn’t do very much for me.”
“I guess.” His voice is a deep rumble. “Dislike practically drips from it.
“Do you want anything?” It’s amazing that I’m able to talk, much less sound natural.
Like I really am searching through the fridge for something to eat instead of planning my next step.
I keep thinking about the knife block. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I was able to use a knife to get out of here?
It was a knife that got me locked in that cell in the first place.
“I’m not eating anything you prepared,” he replies, sounding hostile.
“Okay, just wanted to offer,” I say, keeping my voice even as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge, along with some sliced cheddar.
This is it. Now or never. He’s still totally involved with whatever he’s doing—maybe playing a game, eyes glued to his screen. I casually walk over to the cabinet with the knife block under it, reaching up for a bowl, then pulling a long, thin knife from the block.
Do it. Just do it. I set everything down on the counter and close my eyes, blowing out a breath. Kill or be killed.
“Ow! Oh, dammit!” I grab my hand, hissing, grimacing. “Son of a bitch!”
“What happened?” The chair legs scrape against the floor.
“I cut myself.” I grip my hand, bent over, hissing again.
“Of course you did. Let me see.”
I have to wait until he’s close enough. Hovering over me. That’s when I show him my hand… and the knife I’m still holding.
He gapes at me, mouth hanging open, when I jam the knife into the side of his neck.
Oh, my god. I just did that. I can’t undo it.
“I’m sorry!” I blurt out, and whatever small part of my brain is thinking rationally sees how funny that is.
I almost laugh. What good is apologizing after what I just did?
I pull the knife free, and he drops to his knees, holding his hands over the wound that is now spurting blood.
It runs down his neck, soaks into his already dark T-shirt until it’s black.
He looks up at me, his mouth moving, no sound coming out.
“Here. Use this.” There’s a dish towel hanging over the handle on the oven door. I yank it up and give it to him. “Press it tight. I’ll call 911.”
“You fucking bitch.” His back is to the stove. He’s already losing color, going gray.
Shit. I need the gun. He’s so busy trying to stop the bleeding, he doesn’t bother stopping me from pulling it out of his waistband.
When I see his wallet sticking halfway out from his back pocket, I grab it, too, and pull out a fistful of cash, which I shove into one of the sweatshirt pockets.
“Give me the code to the elevator! I’ll call 911, but I need the code!
” I even point the gun at him, not that I need to.
I don’t think he has much more time. Will I go to hell for this? I can’t afford to worry about that.
“Can’t…” he whispers.
“You can’t get to your phone, either.” I pick it up from the table and toss it out of the room. He would have to crawl to get it now. “If you want help, give me what I need. The code!”
He closes his eyes, resting his head against the shining oven door. Is it too late? Did it take too long? Then he parts his lips. “Three… five… eight… seven.”
“Thank you. I really am sorry.” He groans helplessly when I turn my back and run for the elevator without calling for help. All that matters now is taking care of myself. I’ll deal with the consequences some other time.
Please, please. As soon as I’m inside the elevator, I punch in the code with a trembling hand. 3587. Please, please, let it be right.
The door closes. I hold my breath almost as desperately as I’m holding the gun.
And then I start to move, descending, and I whimper in mixed relief and horror at what I just did. I killed somebody. He might be dead right now, and it’s because of me. But it was either me or him, right?
The door opens into the underground garage. There’s a guard sitting on a folding chair just beyond the door.
Kill or be killed. Him or me. He barely has time to react with anything more than a grunt of surprise before I raise the gun and fire.
The sound is deafening, but my aim was true.
I hit him in the chest, and he drops, knocking the chair over when he does.
Whimpering again, I pry his wallet from the back pocket of his black jeans and pull out the cash.