The screw shifts again under my palm. Almost there. I shift hard in the chair. The armrest groans, wood complaining under pressure.
“Brooke.” John’s voice cuts through the room.
I freeze.
“Don’t,” John warns. “Do not do something stupid.”
Too late.
I throw my weight sideways and wrench the armrest with everything I have. The wood cracks and the bracket holding the lower cuff tears free from the chair with a loud snap. The cuff is still locked around my wrist, but the armrest comes with it, splintered wood and chain hanging from my arm as I shove the chair aside and scramble to my feet.
Mary screams behind me as I shove the chair aside.
John is already moving.
I swing the broken armrest and catch him across the side of the head. It is not clean enough to drop him, but it staggers him long enough for me to run.
The cuff still circles my wrist, the chain dragging the jagged piece of wood behind me as I tear into the hallway.
“Brooke!” Mary cries. “Stop!”
“Stay the fuck away from me!”
I reach the kitchen door and yank the handle.
Fuck, it’s locked.
John slams into me from the side and drives me into the wall hard enough to knock the air out of my chest. I fight anyway. I claw at him, kick his ribs, twist against his grip.
“Stop it,” he shouts. “Stop it right now!”
I drive my knee into his side and tear loose for half a second.
It is not enough.
He grabs me again before I can run and slams me back against the wall. A gun appears in his hand, the barrel pressing hard against my temple.
“Settle the fuck down,” he says coldly. “Or I walk into that garage, shoot the dog and the cat first, and then come back here and put a bullet in your head.”
My body goes completely still.
Krueger.
Luna.
The fight drains out of me all at once.
“That’s better,” he mutters.
He forces me into the bedroom and slams me back into the chair. The broken cuff still dangles from my wrist, the splintered armrest dragging with it.
John grabs it, yanks the wood free with a sharp crack, and tosses it aside. The loose cuff snaps against my skin as he drags my other arm forward. Cold metal bites down as he locks the second cuff around my free wrist, forcing both hands together in front of me.
Then he reaches for the rope.
It winds tight around my torso and the chair slats, pulling me back until my shoulders strain and the wood cuts into my ribs. He cinches it harder, testing it once, making sure there is no give.
Mary hovers near the doorway, panicked and shaking.
