Hers.
Just a single word on the door to the right, but it needs no other words near it for its meaning to dawn in me. My life or hers. I’m no fortune-teller, no mind-reader, but the only girl whose life matters to me, the only girl whose life I would ever even think about choosing before my own is Wren.
My life or Wren’s. Is that what this choice is supposed to be?
If I pick my life, does that mean Wren will die? Does that mean she’s here, in this God-awful place, going through the same shit I just did?
A year ago, my choice would’ve been instant. Hell, even seven months ago I would’ve known my choice. Nothing and no one could have ever made me debate on choosing the other door, nomatter what was written on it. Even if it came down to me or my brother… I’m a selfish prick. I’d choose me every damn day.
But me or Wren? Fuck, I don’t think I could bear to choose myself over her. She’s a better person than me. Her future is brighter than mine. If anyone deserves to have decades more added onto their life, it’s her, not me.
I know that choosing the door on the right, the one labeledHers, might be the last thing I do, and still, I only stand there for a minute or two before I move toward it. My heart beats so fast in my chest it feels like it’s going to burst, and not in the good I’m-in-the-middle-of-a-fantastic-fucking-session kind of way. No, this kind of fast heartbeat is acceptance.
If I have to choose between her life or mine, I choose hers. There’s no other option. I won’t run from her again. If I never would’ve ran after that song on stage with her, she never would’ve been hit by a car. She got hurt because of me, and I’ll be damned if I make the wrong choice again.
Stopping in front of the door on the right, I gather myself and try to calm myself down. If I die the moment I walk through this door, then… fuck, I guess I die, but I die with the hope that whoever did this will leave Wren alone.
I exhale slowly and yank open the door, and to my surprise, I see a stairwell. Not exactly what I thought I’d see. Honestly, I thought I’d walk into a room and instantly die somehow. A bullet to the head. An axe to the neck. Shit, something that went along with the rest of this fucking place.
But there’s nothing. Nothing but a stairwell that leads up.
Ugh, don’t tell me there’s a whole different level to this maze. Please don’t tell me there’s more to this.
Only way to find out.
I press forward, moving toward the stairwell, and once I reach it, I take it one step at a time, moving as slowly as I can. The steps seem stable. None of them creak beneath my feet.There are no wires to trip me or make me fall backward and crack my head open. The stairs are literally just stairs.
Making it to the landing at the top, I face a closed door. This one doesn’t have any message on it. I don’t know what I’ll find once I open it, but I need to be ready. Prepared for anything. I might have numerous cuts all over me, but I’m not dead yet. I’m not even half-dead. Whatever it is, I can do it. I have to.
My hand reaches for the door knob, and I hold my breath as I twist it and push it open. What I see when I step through catches me so off-guard, all I can do for a moment or two is stare.
No more dim, flickering lights. No more traps. Just a wide-open kitchen space, which immediately tells me that horror movie maze was in someone’s basement. But, of course, it’s not the fancy kitchen that calls my attention the most. Nope. That honor belongs to the person sitting at a nearby table, sipping from a mug like he’s right where he’s meant to be.
Like he’s at home.
Fucking Professor Scott.
Chapter Twelve – Reese
I can only imagine what’s going on in Logan’s head as he emerges from the basement and spots me a good ten feet away. I’m sitting at the table, sipping on some coffee. Truth be told, I didn’t know if he’d prove himself and make it out of that maze alive, and if he did make it to the end, there was a chance he’d choose the other door.
That one wouldn’t have been pretty.
The moment Logan sees me, he freezes. The wheels turn in his head, and his green eyes are slow to narrow in my direction. I spot the numerous cuts on his skin: on his cheek, on his neck, on one of his arms. It looks as though he even has a wound on his head somewhere, because blood drips from his hairline. The worst wound, the deepest, looks to be the one on his neck, but none are deep enough to permanently maim or disfigure him. All those wounds will heal nicely, although the one on his neck might leave a tiny scar in its place.
Frankly, I’m as shocked to see him as he is shocked to see me. I didn’t have high hopes for him, for reasons that would be obvious to anyone who knows him. He’s not the kind of person who would ever choose someone else’s life over his own.
And yet here he is. Today is a day full of surprises.
A smirk tugs at my face, and I greet him without getting up, “Hello, Logan. Nice to see you again.”
I’m barely able to get the words out before he regains himself, and once he’s back to being mobile, he storms right over to me and lands a hard punch on my face. By the time he reaches me, I’ve set my mug down, ready for his anger, but I let him have the one hit. He’s furious with me, and he has every right to be.
The second blow, however, is one I stop with my own hand, catching his thrown fist and pushing him back, all without standing.
“Now, now,” I say, able to ignore the blossom of pain on my cheek, “why don’t you have a seat so we can talk?”
Logan doesn’t move a muscle. He breathes hard, his stare more like a glare. He’s probably imagining killing me with his bare hands, perhaps strangulation? Again, I can’t blame him for his anger. If I was dropped in a maze like a lab rat, I would be pretty ticked off, too.
