Chapter Twenty-One
~ Him or Me ~
Kit
I wake up slowly and painfully, consciousness dragging itself back like it’s fighting every inch of the way.
My face is on fire. The cut along my cheek and forehead throbs with a deep, stinging agony that radiates all the way down my neck.
Blood has dried in crusty streaks across my skin and soaked into the front of my shirt, stiff and itchy.
My arms ache from being bound behind the chair for so long.
My whole body feels battered, bruised, and heavy.
I’ve never been this angry in my life. A raw, burning rage simmers under the pain, I wish I were stronger.
I wish I could take every ounce of hurt Finn has inflicted on me and shove it right back into him.
Last night, after he finished recording that video, I kept drifting in and out of consciousness.
I vaguely remember Finn slapping what felt like butterfly strips onto the cut on my face.
It could just be tape for all I know, but at least the bleeding finally stopped.
My skin feels tight and swollen now, pulling every time I move even slightly.
I still don’t understand why he hasn’t just killed me. Maybe that would be too merciful for him. Who the hell knows what goes on in that deranged head.
The old chair I’m tied to is even more battered and wobbly than it was when I first sat in it a week ago.
One of the screws in the back leg has come loose from all the violent shifting and struggling.
Honestly, I’m not even scared of hurting myself if the chair finally collapses.
It would be nothing compared to what Finn has already done to me.
I know he left on the jet ski about an hour ago. Whenever he does that, he never returns for hours.
I look down at the loose screw and start wobbling the chair against its back leg, watching as the screw works itself looser with every shift.
I don’t know how long I do it for; time feels slippery down here.
But this new, stubborn determination keeps pushing me.
Eventually the screw clangs to the floor.
I laugh to myself, a weak, broken sound, at this pathetic little victory.
I wobble the chair harder until it tips, landing on my side with a grunt, the impact jarring every bruise.
For a moment I just lie here, letting my head rest against the cold metal floor, imagining what it would feel like to close my eyes and actually sleep for a while.
But no… I reach around behind me with my bound hands, muttering under my breath, “Come on… come on…”
My fingers finally brush the screw. I wrap them around it tightly and position the sharp end against the rope binding my wrists and start scraping.
It’s going to take a long time; the rope is coarse and stubborn…
but it’s already fraying in places from my earlier struggles.
I have time. Finn won’t be back for hours.
I keep scraping, slow and determined, the small metallic sound the only thing breaking the silence of the room.
I don’t know if I’ll get free. I don’t know what I’ll do if I do. But for the first time since I woke up on this boat, I feel something other than fear… I feel hope.
◆◆◆
I’ve been working on this screw for at least five hours.
The sun has moved across the small circular window in a long, slow arc, painting the metal walls in shifting shades of gold and orange before finally beginning to sink toward the horizon.
I’ve watched every minute of it, using the changing light as my only way to track time.
My stomach is beyond empty now, it’s a deep, gnawing void that’s moved past hunger into something worse.
I gagged a while ago, dry-heaving violently over the floor, but nothing came up.
Just painful, empty spasms that left me shaking and gasping.
Still, my grip on the screw hasn’t wavered.
I’m pushing every last scrap of energy I have into that one small, repetitive motion…
scraping, scraping, scraping. I don’t even know if I’m making any real progress.
For all I know I’m just wearing down the screw and exhausting myself for nothing.
My arm is numb from lying on my side for so long, shoulder aching, fingers cramped and slippery with sweat.
My eyes are getting impossibly heavy. The exhaustion is pulling at me like gravity, threatening to drag me under again.
Then I feel a sudden, sharp snap. My eyes fly open, a flicker of desperate hope surging through me so fast it makes my head spin. I don’t dare move. I don’t even breathe for a long second, terrified that if I do, the moment will vanish and I’ll realise it was just my imagination.
I test it carefully… a tiny wriggle of my wrists. The rope gives. With a couple of harder tugs, my hands come free completely. The thick coil falls loose with a soft thud against the metal floor.
I laugh into the cold floor, the sound weak and broken but real. “Oh, thank fuck…”
I pull at the rest of the rope with my newly freed hands until my arms are completely loose.
Another shaky laugh escapes me as I bring my hands around to my face.
My wrists are raw and red, skin rubbed bloody in places, but I don’t care.
I reposition myself, using the chair for leverage, and after a few weak, trembling attempts I manage to push myself up until I’m standing on unsteady legs.
I laugh again, the sound shaky as my whole body trembles with the effort.
I grab the now-loose leg of the chair and yank it free with a grunt.
It’s heavy in my hands, solid metal. I hope I’ll have enough strength left to swing it hard enough to crack it across Finn’s head.
That bastard deserves so much worse, but right now it’s him or me.
And I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.
I pick the chair back up and carefully position the remaining leg underneath it, hoping it’ll hold my weight if I stay steady enough. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples.
Then I hear the distant whine of the jet ski cutting through the waves, growing louder as it approaches the boat.
Oh crap. Panic surges through me. I scramble for the rope, hands shaking, and try my best to throw it back around myself and the chair.
The leg nearly gives out from under me, but I still and it holds.
I wrap the rope behind my back as tightly as I can manage, hoping it looks convincing from the front.
Finn doesn’t usually look too closely; he’s too busy taunting and bragging.
I hold my breath, trying to steady the wild hammering of my heart, and pray he doesn’t notice anything different.
I’m trying to look as broken and defeated as possible, when I hear the jet ski engine cut off outside.
Heavy footsteps stomp down the metal stairs.
Three locks click and clank, then the door swings open.
Finn storms in, manic energy rolling off him in waves.
His eyes are too wide, pupils blown, hair wild from the sea wind.
He’s waving a gun around like it’s a toy, gesturing wildly as he paces the small room.
“All of them!” he shouts, voice cracking with rage. “Every single one of my fucking properties is up in flames across the city! My safehouses, my rentals, every little place I was making income from… gone! Poof! Burned to the fucking ground!”
He laughs, unamused, high and unhinged, then suddenly stops in front of me and jabs the cold barrel of the gun hard against my temple. I flinch, breath catching.
He leans in close, breath hot and sour against my face, laughing like a psycho right into my eyes. “And you know the best part, little Christopher? It had to be Mr. Sinclair who did it. Had to be. He’s throwing a tantrum because I took his favourite toy.”
Finn pulls the gun back just enough to tap it against my forehead, still grinning that deranged grin.
“I couldn’t find any information on who you are,” he continues, voice dropping into a rambling whisper.
“Couldn’t even figure out your last name.
But the way he’s been protecting you… holding your hand in public like some lovesick fool, destroying all of my properties…
and God knows where the fuck my brothers are because I tried finding them, but they’ve gone dark… ”
He pants, leaning down to my height, eyes wild. “That can only mean one thing… you must have been Mr. Sinclair’s little fuck boy.”
He’s panting like a rabid dog now, spittle flying, face inches from mine. I swallow hard, throat dry and painful. I could laugh in his face. I could spit. I could shout. But I can’t. I have to wait for the right moment, when his back is turned, when he’s distracted.
Finn straightens up slightly, still waving the gun. “So why shouldn’t I put a bullet in you right now?”
My heart slams into my throat. Not like this. Not like this. I force my voice out, weak and shaky but quick. “You… you said you were gonna call him, right?”
Finn pauses, then grins wider, like I just reminded him of his favourite game. “Ah yes… genius…” He lowers the gun and places it on the table with a heavy clack, obviously thinking I’m still securely tied up. “Let the king watch his little toy boy die in front of him.”
He turns slightly, reaching for something on the shelf behind him.
My pulse thunders in my ears… this is it; I have to time this perfectly, or I’m dead.