Chapter 16 Shay #2
I forced myself not to pull away. Forced myself to kiss him back, to part my lips when his tongue sought entrance, to make the small sounds he would expect.
His hands moved to my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, could feel how desperately he wanted this, wanted me.
I let him push me back against the mattress, his weight settling over me, his hands sliding under the hem of my shirt.
I was playing with fire. And I knew it.
I kissed him back anyway, telling myself it was all part of the plan.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against my mouth, the words spilling out like a confession. “Missed you.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his hips against mine, and I could feel just how much he missed me.
His mouth drifted down my neck, leaving a trail of kisses that settled at my collarbone, and my fingers tangled in his hair without conscious thought. This was muscle memory, months of intimacy encoded into my nerve endings.
For one disorienting moment, I wasn’t in a basement. I was upstairs, in our bed, on a lazy Sunday morning when we had nowhere to be and all the time in the world. The sunlight streaming through the curtains, turning everything gold, feeling the phantom shape of Tom’s smile against my skin.
I felt myself responding. My body arched into his touch, heat pooling low in my stomach. My breaths came faster, matching his.
His mouth claimed mine again, deeper this time, hungrier, and I kissed him back with equal intensity. My hands slid under his shirt, finding warm skin. He made a low sound of pleasure and pressed closer, one leg sliding between mine, the friction sending sparks shooting up my spine.
The chains clinked softly with our movement.
And then I remembered.
I pushed him off me before I could think twice about what I was doing.
Tom stumbled back, nearly falling off the mattress, looking completely disoriented.
“What—” He was breathing hard, his shirt rumpled and half-untucked, lips swollen from kissing.
“I changed my mind,” I told him, flatly.
I watched him process it, watched the hope drain out of his expression, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like hurt. He straightened, adjusting his clothes with hands that shook slightly, running a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. That’s—that’s fine. You don’t have to—” He stopped, seeming to realize there was nothing he could say that would make this better. “I’ll go bring you some water.”
He left me alone.
I sat there in the aftermath, my heart racing, my lips still tingling from the kiss. My skin felt too hot, too sensitive, like every nerve was exposed and raw. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on me, could still taste him on my tongue.
I felt dirty.
Not violated—that would have been easier to process, simpler to categorize.
I felt dirty because some part of me had enjoyed it.
Had wanted it. Had forgotten, even for just a few moments, why it was wrong.
Had forgotten that everything about this situation was fundamentally broken beyond any hope of repair.
I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, trying to make myself smaller, trying to compress the confused tangle of feelings into something manageable.
It didn’t work.
* * *
I tried to act normally after that.
Normal was a relative term when it came to imprisonment, but I attempted it anyway. I ate when he brought food. I responded when he spoke. I didn’t bring up what had happened that night, and neither did he.
I didn’t try anything like that again.
The attempt to get closer to him had done more harm than good, but it was too late to take it back now.
I could see it in the way he moved around me—more uncertain, like he was navigating a minefield and couldn’t quite remember where all the explosives were buried.
The easy warmth that had been building was gone, replaced by something tense and awkward.
But I could be patient when it mattered.
It took time to get back to where we’d been at the start—to that careful equilibrium where I responded just enough to keep him engaged and encourage hope without promising anything. Days bled into each other, marked only by meals and the changing quality of light from the small window.
Slowly, but surely, things began to go back to normal.
* * *
It was a day like any other when the chance for escape appeared.
Tom brought me food as usual, setting it down on the small table he’d brought down weeks ago, along with a glass of water.
“I have to go to work. Will you be okay today?”
As if I had a choice.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
He hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. “I’ll be back this evening.”
He closed the door behind him, the lock engaging with a heavy click.
I was alone once more.
I waited, counting heartbeats, making sure he was really gone. I heard his footsteps above, moving toward what I knew was the front of the house. Heard a door open and close. Heard the distant sound of a car engine starting, then fading as he drove away.
Only then did I move.
I turned my attention to the lunch plate he’d left. Scrambled eggs, perfectly fluffy. Spicy sausages. Toast, cut diagonally. Fresh fruit, already washed and sliced. All of it seasoned and presented perfectly, prepared with care.
No one could say that Tom didn’t take care of his pets.
But beside the plate, partially hidden by the napkin, something else caught my attention.
A knife.
Small, serrated, for cutting the fruit probably. But a knife nonetheless.
He’d likely forgotten it, left it there in his rush to get to work.
My heart began to pound.
This was it. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for.
I reached for the knife, the chains clinking softly as I wrapped my fingers around the handle.
I brought it to my wrist, to the cuff encircling my left hand. The metal was thick, the lock mechanism complex. But maybe, if I could wedge the blade into the locking mechanism, if I could pry it or break something crucial—
I worked at it for what felt like hours. The knife blade was too thick, wrong for the job. I tried forcing it into the keyhole, twisting, prying at the hinge, trying everything I could think of with increasing desperation.
My hands were slick with sweat. My breathing came hard and fast, loud in the empty basement. Come on. Come on.
Then I angled the blade differently, using just the very tip, and felt something shift inside the mechanism. There was a small click, barely audible but unmistakable.
My heart leapt.
I worked the blade carefully, feeling for the internal pins. The tip of the blade caught on something, a spring, maybe, or a locking pin, and I applied gentle pressure, twisting slightly, feeling for the sweet spot.
Another click.
The cuff on my left wrist sprang open.
I stared at it for a moment, hardly believing it was real.
My wrist was free, red and raw where the metal had chafed, the skin angry and inflamed.
But free. The remaining cuff still circled my right wrist, chain dangling from it like a leash, and I made quick work of that one too, my hands steadier now that I knew it could be done.
I stood on shaking legs.
There was no other way out other than going up those stairs. The window in the basement was too small to climb through, and I didn’t even bother to try, knowing it would be futile and cost me precious time.
I crossed the basement on silent feet, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. Each step felt monumental and dangerous, like the concrete might crack beneath me, like alarms might sound, like Tom might somehow sense what I was doing and materialize to stop me.
The stairs loomed before me—wooden, old, and creaking. I’d counted them before. There were thirteen steps that stretched from the basement to the main floor. An unlucky number.
I started climbing.
On the first step, the wood groaned softly under my weight, a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the silence around me. I froze, listening for any sounds from above, my entire body rigid with tension.
There was nothing. I carried on.
Step two. Step three. I gripped the knife tighter, feeling its weight.
Step four. Step five. I was halfway there. My legs were trembling, from exhaustion or muscle atrophy, I couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. I had to keep moving.
Step six. Step seven. Step eight.
I could see the door now, at the top of the stairs. Solid wood, painted white. Freedom was on the other side.
Step nine. Step ten.
Almost there. Almost there.
Step eleven. Step twelve.
Only one more step remained.
I lifted my foot and placed it on the thirteenth step.
I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, staring at the door. The frame was old wood, with a visible gap between the door and the jamb. Not much—maybe a few millimeters—but enough that I could see the darkness of the space between them.
I looked down at the knife in my hand. The blade was thin, flexible.
I positioned it at the gap, right where I estimated the latch would be, and slid it in carefully, feeling it scrape against wood and metal. There—I felt resistance.
I angled the blade toward the door, trying to push the latch back, applying pressure while simultaneously pushing on the door with my shoulder.
Nothing.
I tried again, this time wiggling the blade as I pushed, trying to work it deeper into the gap. I felt it catch on something—the beveled edge of the latch. I pushed harder, angling the blade, using my body weight against the door.
The latch gave way with a soft click.
The door swung open into the kitchen, bathed in afternoon light.
I stumbled forward, the knife still clutched in my sweaty palm. The hardwood floor was cold against my bare feet. My eyes scanned desperately for keys, for a phone, for anything that would help me.
But then, I felt something prick the back of my neck.
The unmistakable sensation of a needle piercing skin.
My hand flew up reflexively, but it was already too late. I felt the burn of medication entering my bloodstream, felt someone’s hand steadying me from behind.
No.
No no no no—
“I’m sorry,” Tom’s voice spoke close to my ear, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Shay. But I had to be sure.”
The world began to tilt, reality sliding sideways like a painting falling off a wall. My legs gave out and he caught me, his arms wrapping around me from behind, lowering me carefully to the floor. The knife clattered from my grip with a metallic ring.
I tried to speak, to curse him, to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
The room was spinning now, stretching into impossible shapes. Tom’s face swam above me, blurry and distorted. He looked sad. Genuinely, heartbreakingly sad.
“Sleep now,” he said softly, and his hand smoothed my hair back from my forehead with terrible gentleness. “When you wake up, we’ll talk more about this.”
The darkness was rising up to meet me. I tried to fight it, tried to cling to consciousness, but it was useless.
The drug was too strong. Or maybe I was too weak.
Then the world went dark.
And I fell into nothing.