Chapter Thirty Chloe
Pain rolls through me in thick, crushing waves.
I curl forward as far as the restraints allow, trying to protect my stomach even though the damage is already done. Each breath sends another wave of nausea. My cheek throbs where Blackwood slapped me, and the metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.
Saliva floods my mouth. I feel my stomach revolting. I’m going to throw up.
I squeeze my eyes shut and drag air through my nose. The sandwich he forced me to swallow sits like a stone in my stomach. My body tries to reject it, but I fight the convulsions. If I vomit while I’m tied like this, I could choke.
I refuse to die in this room. I refuse to let Steven Blackwood win.
I swallow repeatedly, forcing the nausea down. Sweat gathers along my hairline, and my arms tremble from the strain of fighting the restraints. Another cramp twists through my stomach. I breathe through it, counting silently until the worst of it passes.
One.
Two.
Three.
By ten, my stomach finally begins to settle.
I sag against the headboard, exhausted from the small battle. My breaths remain shallow because anything deeper hurts too much. I don’t know if the punch damaged something inside me. I can’t think about that now because panic and fear will not get me out of here.
I open my eyes and force myself to look around the room.
The tray rests crookedly on the mattress beside my hip.
Blackwood left it behind when he stormed out.
The sandwich is scattered across the plate, crumbs and torn pieces of bread covering the sheets.
Potato chips spill all over. Then something on the tray catches the fading light.
A narrow shard of glass lies among the potato chips.
A flicker of hope clears the remaining fog from my head. I glance toward the closed door and listen. Silence hangs on the other side. I don’t hear footsteps. No muttering. No movement at all.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t close.
I shift my body so my hip rests on the tray.
The movement sends a fresh wave of pain, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
With my hip, I shift the tray up the bed.
I lift and lower my body as I shift the tray closer and closer to my face.
With my teeth, I carefully snag the glass fragment.
Turning my head, I can just reach it with my right hand.
I feel my lip bleeding, but I ignore it. I know I don’t have much time.
Carefully, I pinch the glass between two fingers. It’s slick with soda and my blood, but I manage to turn it until the jagged edge faces the restraint around my wrists.
Hope surges through me, overriding the pain.
I don’t know how long Blackwood will stay away. I don’t know if the shard is strong enough to cut through the ties. I don’t even know if I can hold on to it while my hands are shaking this badly. But I do know that this is my best chance of getting the hell out of here.
I press the edge of the glass against the restraint and begin to saw.
The shard nicks my wrist. Warm blood trickles down my arm, but I don’t stop. I work through the pain, keeping my movements small and silent.
One stroke at a time gets me one step closer to freedom.
Eventually, the fibers fray beneath the edge, but progress is agonizingly slow.
My fingers cramp from gripping the shard, and blood makes the glass slick.
Every few seconds, I have to stop and adjust it before it slips from my grasp.
So, it takes me longer than I want. I have to keep my movements silent because Blackwood could return at any moment.
The thought drives me forward. I saw harder, ignoring the sting each time the glass slices my skin instead of the rope. Sweat rolls down my temple. My shoulders burn from being held in the same position for so long.
Come on.
A slight tearing sound has me catching my breath. My right hand is free. A single tear drips down my cheek. A cry of joy surges into my throat when the binding finally breaks. I clamp my lips together to keep it from escaping.
My right hand is loose, but I’m not free yet. My left wrist is still tied to the bed frame. The rope holding it is short, keeping my arm pinned awkwardly beside me. Pain explodes through my stomach when I twist my body to reach it.
A sharp cry escapes before I can stop it. I freeze, horrified. My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the bedroom door, terrified that he’ll choose now to come in.
Moving more carefully, I shift onto my side. Nausea rises again, but I swallow it down. My newly freed right hand aches as I reach across my body. Blood covers my fingertips, and the cuts burn, but I still have the shard.
I position its edge against the rope securing my left wrist.
This time, it goes faster.
I can see what I’m doing, and I have better control over the glass—the rope parts after less than a minute. My left arm drops onto the mattress.
Now, both my hands are free.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that tears sting my eyes. I’m exhausted and in pain. I want to curl up into a ball, but I can’t. I know Blackwood will come back, and if he finds me like this, I don’t know what he’ll do.
I push myself upright, biting the inside of my cheek as pain tears through my abdomen and face. The room tilts, forcing me to close my eyes until the dizziness passes.
My ankles remain secured to the foot of the bed, each one bound separately. I shift toward them, dragging the tray with me so the shard doesn’t disappear into the sheets if I drop it.
The first rope takes longer than I expect. My hands are trembling, and I have to stop twice when footsteps seem to echo somewhere beyond the room.
Each time, I hold perfectly still and listen.
Each time, I hear nothing more.
The rope around my right ankle finally splits. I pull my leg free and turn to the left. This knot is tighter, but the rope is already worn where I’ve struggled against it. The shard cuts through the damaged fibers.
The instant it parts, I shove the rope away.
I’m free.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my bare feet on the carpet. Pins and needles stab through my soles. My knees buckle when I try to stand, and I catch myself on the mattress.
“Easy,” I whisper.
I remain bent over until the room stops spinning. Then I straighten slowly, one painful inch at a time.
Standing hurts. So does breathing.
Every part of me feels battered and weak, but I’m no longer tied to the bed. As I stand in the middle of the room, I rub my hands together to restore feeling to my swollen fingers. Then I bend carefully to massage my ankles. I study my surroundings as my circulation returns.
Getting free from my bindings was only the first step. Now I have to figure out how to get the hell out of this room.
My gaze settles on the bedroom door.
It’s the most obvious route. I could cross the room, turn the handle, and see if Blackwood left it unlocked. If it opens, I might be able to slip through the house and reach an exterior door.
But I have no idea what waits on the other side.
Blackwood could be standing in the hallway. He could be sitting in a nearby room, listening for me. The floor might creak. The exterior doors might be locked. Even if I make it outside, I don’t know where he brought me or how far I’ll have to run before I find help.
Trying the door means stepping into his territory blind. I can’t afford to make a mistake and remain in this prison.
So, I shift my attention to the window.
The blinds are closed, but daylight glows around the edges. I’m not in a basement. That alone gives me a sliver of hope.
I shuffle toward it, moving slowly because my feet still tingle and my knees threaten to buckle. The glass shard remains clenched in my hand. It’s a pathetic weapon, but it’s all I have.
When I reach the window, I stand to the side rather than directly in front of it. I slide two fingers between the slats and lift one just enough to peer outside.
An unkempt backyard stretches beyond the glass. The grass is tall and choked with weeds. Dead leaves have gathered around a rusted metal shed near the back fence. A few battered lawn chairs lie overturned beside a firepit filled with rainwater and trash.
There is no sign of life in the backyard; that’s all that matters.
Examining the window frame, I'm relieved to see there are no bars or locks. It’s just a simple window. Relief nearly makes my legs give out.
I release the slat and find the cord. Holding the blinds steady with one hand, I draw them upward a few inches at a time. The mechanism clicks softly, and every tiny sound makes my pulse jump. Every few seconds, I stop and listen. Relieved when the house remains silent.
I raise the blinds the rest of the way and study the window latch. It’s old but ordinary. I turn it carefully and brace both hands beneath the frame.
When the window resists, panic flares. I push harder, but it doesn’t move. For one horrifying moment, I think Blackwood painted it shut or nailed it closed.
Then the frame jerks upward with a muted scrape.
The sounds freeze me in place. I don’t move again until I verify the silence remains.
Then, I lift the window slowly until the opening is wide enough for me to crawl through.
Cool air brushes my face, carrying the scents of damp earth and overgrown grass.
A screen still blocks my way.
I find two small tabs near the bottom. My injured fingers fumble with them, but I manage to pull the screen inward.
The metal frame catches on the window track, threatening to clatter against the sill.
So, I grab it with both hands, ignoring the jab of the glass in my palm.
There is no way I’m dropping my only weapon.
I angle the screen sideways and ease it into the room. Once it’s clear, I lower it onto the carpet while holding my breath. I pause to listen for sounds coming from inside or out. With a shaky exhale, I close my eyes at the sound of silence.
Girding myself, I hoist my body up and over the sill. My stomach screams in protest, but I swallow the cry.
The drop isn’t far, but in my condition it might as well be ten feet.
I twist sideways, lower my leg, and grip the sill as I ease myself out. The window scrapes against my back. But when my feet find the ground, I release my hold, causing my knees to fold beneath me.
I catch myself before I fall, sliding into a crouch beneath the window. Pain tears through my abdomen, but I remain silent.
For the first time since I woke tied to that bed, I’m outside.