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The man in front of me picks up his pace, the leather of his jacket squeaking as he breaks into a light jog. Even this close, it’s too dark for me to make out the faded design on the back. And for one heart-stopping moment I wonder if he is some kind of special Reaper. If Bane or Nova were able to get word out and he came to help me.
My pace matches his out of instinct, my pulse a constant drum beating inside my ears.
He slows down soon, and I don’t stop in time, stumbling into his back. My hands fly to his back reflexively, and I stop my face from smashing into him. My fingertips glide over the material, and I can make out the muted colors of red and orange this close. My mind spins as I realize it looks familiar. Confusion slithers between the adrenaline and determination, sending my thoughts scattering as I try to place the familiarity.
The whine of another metal door draws me out of my spiral. My attention snaps to him as he glances over his shoulder. His brows are a harsh slash across his angular face. “Quiet. We don’t know who’s inside.”
I arch a brow and keep my questions to myself, mindful of how anything I say can be used to glean information out of me. Later, when I'm clear of all of this, Cora and I are going to have a great laugh at how easily I slipped into this role like I'm starring on some drama series on TV. As if anyone is going to interrogate me or try to get information out of me.
And not because I don't know anything of value, but because this is fucking Rosewood and this crazy shit isn't supposed to happen in this town.
I follow silently behind the man as he steps into what looks like the storage side of a basement. And like a lightbulb went off inside my head, I realize with sudden clarity that this is Bane’s house—his basement. And this is exactly the boon I needed. My confidence and determination inflate a little. Asshole Reaper or not, this is my chance to get the hell out of here, and I’m going to take it.
Silas, Nova, and Bane built an escape tunnel between their two houses. Which is somehow brilliant and scary, and I’m honestly surprised that Nova didn’t tell me. An escape hatch seems like something he would have loved to show me.
But more importantly, it means there are things here I can use as weapons.
He closes the metal door shut and leans his hip against it. "Grab me that wrench," he says, pointing to the workbench along the left-hand wall.
I jog over to the bench and make a big deal of pushing onto my tiptoes to reach it. The fingertips of my right hand graze the bottom of the wrench while my left hand curls around the handle of the flathead screwdriver on the top of the workbench. I grunt a little bit, enough to vocalize that I'm trying but struggling.
As predicted, the man sighs like I'm the worst inconvenience and storms across the room. I wait until I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, until he's reaching up for the wrench.
Until he leaves his right side open.
And then I pivot on the ball of my foot and slam the screwdriver into his side as hard as I can.
He roars, dropping his outstretched hand to curl around me. I try to dislodge his grip, pushing off the workbench and slamming my body into his. I aim for the screwdriver, using my legs to push against the tool. He cries out in pain and lets go of me, his hands flying to his side.
I’ve seen enough horror films to know what happens to girls who dawdle. So I don’t hesitate. I spin on my heels and run like hell across the basement. I keep my gaze on the door, flat-out running toward it like it’s some kind of holy grail. It might as well be backlit with gold for the way it holds my salvation.
I ignore the part of my brain that's insisting I look over my shoulder, drowning her out with the sound of my breath panting through my teeth. If he's going to shoot me, it doesn't really matter if I'm watching or not. I can't dodge a bullet.
My palm slides over the cool metal of the doorknob and another burst of adrenaline floods my veins. It's tainted with elation, like I'm going to actually make it out of here. I don't know how I'm going to get past the throng of angry asshole bikers, but I know that Bane has weapons all over this house. And in the time it takes me to turn the knob and pull open the door, that tiny little seedling of hope sprouts.
And that, that was my fatal flaw.
Something tackles me from behind, rolling to take the brunt of the fall as we slam into the concrete basement floor. The door flies toward the wall, hitting the drywall with a resounding thwack before ricocheting back into the side of my head. It’s enough to stun me, freezing my muscles as stars twinkle across my vision.
He doesn’t hesitate, taking advantage of my inaction and springing into motion. “Remember, I wanted to do this the easy way. But you made me do this.”
I groan, pressing my hand against the tender spot on my head and twisting away from him. I try to bring my legs up for leverage to get him off of me, but I’m not fast enough. My movements are sluggish and slow, hindered by pain and disorientation. We grapple for a few moments before he ends up on top of me, sitting on my stomach with my arms pinned at my sides beneath his legs. The wound on his side bleeds freely, but he doesn’t seem concerned with it.
His hand grasps my chin, covering my mouth with his big palm, holding my head still. His dark blond hair hangs over his forehead, his lips a cruel slash across his face. Deja vu washes over me like a tidal wave, bucket after bucket of the icy sensation slipping into my nose and over my eyes and covering my mouth. It suffocates me in its intensity.
I stop struggling as the realization floats toward me on a brutal flood of recognition. Closer and closer. It's just outside of my grasp when the syringe comes into view.
He uses his grip on my chin to tilt my neck to the side, and I start struggling again. Desperation leaks from my pores in droves, it's tangy and sticky and coats the back of my throat.
"Stop, stop!" I yell from behind his hand, but it comes out as muffled nonsense.
"I fucking told you to knock it off. I never should've left you here for so long. They told me to let you come to me, but I fucking knew better." He removes the syringe cap with his teeth, spitting it to the side. "If you don't hold still, I might accidentally slip and this will kill you." His tone is so even, so matter of fact. So devoid of emotion that it shocks me into submission.
Because despite everything, I don't want to die. I want to hug Cora again. To listen to Nana Jo's favorite records and dance with Bane. To bake chocolate chip cookies with Hunter. To go to the movies with Nova and kiss Silas in the rain.
I force myself to still. Anger and regret and outrage tumble over one another like the plastic cap rolling over and over across the cold concrete floor. My eyes fill with tears as I exhale through my nose.
“There. That’s not so bad, hm?” His voice doesn’t change, still the same even delivery as a moment ago. And somehow, that makes it all the more worse.
