FAE #2
For a heartbeat that stretches too long, he is still upright. His eyes flare wide, shock flooding them as his balance wavers, and white-hot panic slices through me so sharply it almost steals my vision. I miscalculated. He’s still standing. He’s still—
Robyn doesn’t hesitate.
She surges forward with a speed I haven’t seen since before this place tried to break her, the second slat gripped tight in her hands.
She drives it into the back of his knee with every ounce of force she has left.
The crack of wood against his joint is brutal and a sharp, wet snap of the impact echoes off concrete.
His leg buckles out from under him and his body pitches forward; his arms flail uselessly as gravity finally claims him.
If I was expecting him to make noise, I was wrong.
A grunt is the only sound that falls out of his mouth, like he’s almost too dazed to ask for help.
Shaking myself out of the fear, I don’t give him time to recover.
I step in and bring the slat down again, harder and aimed for his temple.
The sound this time is heavier as his body hits the concrete floor with a sickening thud.
The room falls into a stunned silence.
“Again,” Robyn whispers.
I bring the slat down once more and he doesn’t move. Not a twitch, not even a groan.
The adrenaline crashes into me like a tidal wave. My hands start to shake violently as sweat slicks my palms until the timber nearly slips from my grip. My lungs pull in air too fast and nausea surges up my throat so sharply that I have to clamp my teeth together to keep from gagging.
I let the slat drop and it clatters against the floor.
Freedom has never been this close.
I can feel it pressing against my skin like the air before a storm finally breaks.
“Help me roll him,” I roughly say as I move toward the handcuffs that I dropped on the floor.
We grab him under the shoulders and hip and drag.
He is heavier than I imagined, dead weight in a way that makes my ribs scream and my arms burn, but we don’t slow.
His shoes scrape against the concrete as we haul him toward the metal rods bolted into the wall; the same rods that have held us in place whilst he decided what to take next.
Anger flares in my chest as we shove him flat onto his stomach.
How many times have we been chained here with nowhere to run?
How many times did we stare at that opposite wall and promise each other it wouldn’t be the end?
Watching him lie there instead of us feels wrong and right in equal measure.
I grab his wrist and wrench his arm up above his head.
It’s limp, and that somehow makes it worse.
Robyn mirrors me on the other side. Our movements are frantic but aligned as our hands work in tight coordination.
The cuffs snap shut around his wrists with a metallic bite that echoes through the room.
He doesn’t stir as I drop to my knees beside him and begin searching.
My fingers fumble through his jacket first, then his inner pockets.
Every second feels stolen. Every breath borrowed.
I check his waistband, his trouser pockets, the inside of his sleeves.
My fingertips brush against cold metal and I yank the object free.
A knife flashes under the light, its blade narrow and wickedly sharp.
I don’t hesitate as I thrust it toward Robyn.
“Take it,” I hiss. “Use it on anyone you need to.”
She hesitates and I thrust it again.
“Please,” my voice breaks. “Take it.”
Robyn slowly peels the knife from my palm and the tight coil in my chest eases slightly knowing she finally has something that isn’t just hope. She grips it awkwardly before steadying herself and adjusting her hold.
I drop back to my knees beside him as I search again. My fingers sweep over his chest, down his sides, inside his jacket lining, along the waistband of his trousers. Fabric, seams, stitching. My palms are slick with sweat and I have to wipe one against my thigh before continuing.
Every second stretches.
He could wake at any moment.
He could shout.
My fingertips bump against something else solid in his trouser pocket. I hook two fingers inside and pull.
“Keys,” I mutter with an unsteady voice.
The ring drops into my palm with a muted jangle as several keys clink together. The weight of them presses into my skin as a wild hope flares in my chest.
This is real.
All we have to do is finish this. Walk out.
Get to his car and drive to safety. I force myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as I rise; my legs feel unsteady beneath me as my chest heaves whilst I look down at him.
A low groan drags from his throat as his body shifts against the restraints.
It’s not enough movement to break free but it is enough to signal that consciousness is crawling its way back into him.
His head lolls slightly to one side as his eyelids flutter. He looks so small like this.
Diminished.
The illusion of control he wore so comfortably has slipped, and what’s left is just a man chained to a wall with blood beginning to dry in his hair.
For three days I smiled at him. I softened my gaze and lowered my voice until it wrapped around him like reassurance.
I swallowed revulsion and replaced it with manufactured warmth.
I let him believe I was bending under his hands, that resistance had finally drained out of me and left something pliable in its place.
All the while, I was measuring him.
I look down at him now, chained and bleeding and finally beneath us. Robyn wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and meets my eyes.
“Well,” her voice trembles. “That was very girl power of us.”
A breathless laugh escapes me before I can stop it, “I told you we aren’t dying in this warehouse angel,” I cut her a look. “Not for him. Not for anyone.”