Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
My limbs tremble and shivers wrack my body.
A dull ache thrums in my jaw from the constant chattering of my teeth.
The cold, damp air around me seems to have seeped into my bones.
It’s spread through my body, icing my veins and making my skin so cold that the rats don’t even seem interested in what I have to offer anymore.
In the dark, they scurry around the edges of the room, chittering to remind me that they’re there.
This morning, two men I hadn’t seen before came downstairs.
At least I think it was morning. I don’t actually know what time it is or how long I’ve been down here.
My only concept of the passing of time comes from how much pain and numbness I feel in my arms and legs, and whether or not I have to pee.
I assume it was morning, because I definitely did have to pee.
At least these men were kind enough to turn their backs to me while I sat on the bucket and cried.
They gave me water and some kind of protein bar that tasted like cardboard and peanut butter.
It wasn’t enough to stop the constant cries of my empty stomach, but it lessened the ache in my belly.
With eyes filled with pity, they informed me that the birthday party for Bianca’s son, who I now know is called Nico, is tonight.
They said they’d be back later to ‘clean me up’ and a ripple of disgust crawled through my gut, threatening to resurface my breakfast.
As the door closed behind them, a plan began to stitch itself together in my mind. Maybe not an entire plan, but the ghost of a plan. A plan of a plan? I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is getting out of here, and I need to do it before they come back.
Run, a voice whispers through my mind. My eyes well with tears because for the first time, the voice doesn’t belong to my father. It belongs to Gray. Run as fast as you can, baby, he says.
I squeeze my fingers into my palms, letting my nails bite into my skin. “I have to fight.” Shoving out a quivering breath, I vow to the skittering rats and shadowy corners of my musty cage, “I will fight. I will get out of here.”
I won’t let you go, Gray promises in my mind. I can’t let you go. You’re mine.
My heart thumps out a wild beat in my chest, ratcheting up my pulse. “Okay,” I whisper, “think about this, Ava. The damsel…” I cringe, the word tasting bad on my tongue, “…she’s locked in the basement, tied to a chair in the lair of the enemy. Where have I read this before?”
Memories of words and passages swim through my mind.
I search through each of them, plucking out the pieces that don’t fit.
Closing my eyes, I remember all the worlds I’ve been to, the places I’ve seen.
I recall every battle, every trial, and every heartbreak.
A picture begins to form behind my eyes of a woman bound and trapped, her eyes sparkling with defiance.
She looks down at her ripped gown, scheming a way to get out of the ropes that bind her.
“Elodie!” The name explodes from my mouth and I pinch my lips together. Craning my neck, I push my ear toward the ceiling, hoping no one heard my outburst. After what feels like several long minutes, when the room is still silent, I let out a heavy sigh.
“Elodie was trapped in the dungeon of her enemy, where her mate couldn’t get to her.
What was that book called? The Thieves? The Thieves of Something?
Well, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is how she got out.
” I speak to myself with quiet words, letting the familiar cadence of my own voice calm me.
“She toppled her chair over and it smashed into splinters on the floor.” I look down at the chair I’ve been bound to, focusing on the edges and grooves in the wood.
It doesn’t appear to be an antique, but it’s not brand new, either.
Wiggling my ass in the seat, the chair rocks slightly, like the connections between the legs and the floor are uneven.
I shimmy my hips and the wood groans uncomfortably.
“Good, good,” I mumble, my head bobbing with excitement.
I suck in a heavy breath, feeling my lungs expand against my ribcage, before forcing it from my mouth.
Pressing my bare feet into the floor, I straighten my spine.
The chair rocks beneath me as I sway my hips.
The legs tip out from under it, and for a moment, I’m weightless, my body falling through the air.
Pain crashes into me, jolting a yelp from my throat.
Despite the chill of the concrete floor, heat radiates through my side.
Blood leaks from the inside of my cheek and I press my tongue into it, feeling the indentations of my own teeth in my flesh.
The coppery liquid tastes like freedom on my tongue.
I yank my arms forward, ready to burst from my prison, but my arms don’t move. They don’t fucking move!
Kicking my legs backwards, they collide with the legs of the chair—the very solid, unbroken chair. Tears leak from my eyes, pooling between my face and the hard floor.
“Didn’t work,” I wheeze. “Didn’t work.”
My arm is trapped beneath me, my elbow crushed under a wooden arm. Tingles crawl up the ensnared limb and tiny pins stab into me. Seconds tick by, turning into minutes as I lay pressed against the floor.
“Okay,” I choke out. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Your arm is going numb.” I grit my teeth and force my words out between them. “It’s good. This is good. You can pull your arm out of the rope and you won’t even feel it.”
A sob gets caught in my throat as I wiggle my wrist and begin to pull.
Fear whirls like smoke inside of me. Its tendrils crawl down my throat, choking me.
I cringe as images of my hand, mangled and bloodied, drift through my mind.
Even through the numbness, I feel the rope rake over my skin, scratching and ripping.
I know it hurts, baby, Gray's voice purrs through my mind, but you can take it. You're doing so well.
I pull and pull, twitching my fingers and thrashing my hand until it pops free.
Almost immediately, the numbness begins to recede, leaving behind a burning pain that makes me wince.
Drawing in a steadying breath, I look down at my hand.
My skin is red and torn. My eyes follow the lines that make up the bleeding cracks along the top of my hand.
Watching my blood drip onto the concrete, I hiss, “It’s not that bad, Ava.”
I fight with the remaining rope, my fingers slick with blood and sweat. Perspiration leaks from my palms, burning like acid as it spills into my cuts. My other hand pulls free and I gasp out a cry of victory.
A chill seeps into my hands as I press them to the concrete, making my bones quiver. My legs feel like jelly, wobbling and shaking as I stand.
“What now?” I ask the empty air. My throat tightens and uncertainty creeps beneath my skin. Gripping the hem of my shirt, my fingers twitch.
Weak, my father begins to murmur inside of me, pathetic little—
Everything, Gray's voice booms over the painful memory. I let the sound fill me, reaching into my arteries and injecting them with strength.
“Okay,” I breathe, “I need a weapon.” My eyes dart around the room before focusing on the plastic containers stacked in the corner. I push up onto my toes, keeping my steps quiet as I cross the room.
“I need a weapon. The damsel always finds a weapon to defeat the enemy with.”
Up close, I can read the words scrawled across the front of the ugly cornflower blue bins.
“Christmas? Fucking Christmas?!” I groan, smacking my palm against my forehead.
I yank the first bin off the top of the pile, wondering what the heck I'm supposed to do with holiday decorations.
“What were you expecting,” I scoff, “a bin of swords and daggers?”
I run my fingertips over the plastic, feeling the rough edges and aged grooves. Pressing my fingers under the lid, it pops off easily. An old, dusty smell wafts out, tangling in my nostrils and making me want to sneeze. Tinsel crinkles and crunches as I sift through the bin.
Under the first layer of tree garland, my hand lands on something more solid.
It's light with a smooth surface, like glass.
Lifting the small bauble from the bin, my eyes widen.
The globe sparkles, the yellow ceiling light glinting off its surface.
A hand-painted sleigh glides over the ornament, driving through a snowy field. It's pretty, but ultimately useless.
I drop it back into the bin and the tinkle of broken glass floats out behind it.
Pushing the box aside, I stuff my hand into the next one.
My fingers fumble around, feeling rough fabric and bits of string.
As my hand nears the bottom of the decor heap, something hard pokes into my palm. I wrap my fingers around it and yank.
My lips twitch into a smile at the sparkling, metal Christmas tree topper. I squeeze the star in my hand, clenching with all my strength. Rather than bend in my fist, the metal bites into my hand. Its edges are ragged, time and use having sharpened them.
“Perfect.” I chuckle.
A metallic zing sounds as I scrape the edge of the star against the floor.
Over and over, I scratch it over the concrete, forcing little bits of metal to flake off.
The flecks scatter across the floor like silver glitter.
I press my finger to the tip of the sharpest point and gasp.
A bead of blood wells on my fingertip, marking the metal with a festive holiday red.