He was thrusting back.
That alone should have told me he’d recovered. Maybe the act evenhelpedhim recover.
I need to?—
With fury etched in every line of his face, Max rises with the slow squeal of splitting wood. Splintered pieces of the chair fall at his feet.
He kicks out a leg, snapping the cord binding him.
Only one leg remains tied up, and at this point, all he has to do is lift the chair before he’s fully unbound.
Or flex harder and tear right through his clothes.
Dammit.
He tricked me. Quid pro quo, I guess.
For the first time since Isla de Huesos, since the storm and the gunfire and my mother’s blood pooling around her, true terror floods my body and mind.
My control was an illusion. All of it. The chair, the restraints, the drug, the sexual dominance…
I never had him. He was always going to break free. Always going to come for me.
But he hasn’t won yet. I have time to escape. I know these streets, this city, the mountains. He doesn’t.
I snatch up the duffel bag and sprint into the hallway.
Not willing to lose precious seconds in the elevator, I hit the stairs, taking them one flight at a time by holding the railing and jumping. With each drop, the stilettos barelytap.
Above me, the door to the stairwell slams open, followed by loud stamps.
Dizziness rushes over me as I flee. Finally, I hit the lobby and fly through the doors, breathing hard.
The same two security guards who checked on us before linger near the reception desk in the lobby. Their heads jolt up as I sprint past.
“He made me say that.” I heave. “He’s abusive, and he’s after me.”
Both men whip around, their faces grim as they charge toward the stairwell.
That should slow him down.
Smug certainty thins the terror in my heart. If I’m lucky, he might get arrested. At the very least, their questioning will stall him.
Either way, the lie buys me more time.
Outside, I race through the late-night streets, all the way back to the second parking garage I’ve used tonight.
I fumble for the keys in the pocket of my dress. By the time I reach it, my truck’s already unlocked. Flinging the duffel in first, I hop into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
The tires squeal as I peel out of the garage and into the street.
Fat clumps of Seattle snow slap against the windshield as I weave through traffic, taking random turns and putting distance between me and the hotel.
Only when I’m on the highway and heading out of town do I finally let myself breathe.
The weather worsens, flurries accumulating in thick white banks along the road. As visibility drops, I flip on the wipers before finally remembering to turn the heat to full blast.
It’s just the cold. I’m shivering from the cold. That’s all.
