My phone vibrates with an incoming message. Shielding the light from the screen with my hand, I quickly read its contents.
It’s from Tyler.
Rafe told me. Hacking into her smart lock now. I’ll have you inside in under a minute.
The relief is overwhelming, but fleeting.
Tyler can get me in. But what will I find once I’m there?
And once again, will I be too late?
CHAPTER 9
YARA
I needto keep it together.
Ignore the pain, the fear, the panic, the memories threatening to take over.
Just keep it together.
Hold my head high.
Hide my emotions.
Look this asshole Davis straight in the eye, making sure he knows that even though he might have the advantage physically, he can’t break me.
“Fucking bitch,” he hisses, right before he cocks his fist back and punches me in the stomach.
It knocks the wind out of me, and I gasp for air, sucking hard against the fabric stuffed in my mouth.
If I could respond, I’d tell him he needs to be more original. At last count, he’s called mefucking bitchsix times,traitorous bitchfour, and just plainbitcha whopping ten.
Why am I counting? Because it’s better than thinking about just how dire my situation is.
Davis grabs my face, his fingers digging into my jaw and cheeks. He leans in, so close I can see the faint acne scars pitting his forehead and smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Nothing to say?” he asks with a sneer. “Not going to defend yourself?”
I glare at him, letting my anger and defiance speak through my eyes. I can’t exactly tell him how furious I am, which he knows damn well, since he’s the one who gagged me.
He stares at me, his gaze narrowing as it meets mine. After a few long seconds, he spits, “It’s not going to work this time, Yaaaara,” he drawls out mockingly. “You think you’re so special. Like you can get whatever you want just because of how you look.”
I don’t think that. Not even close.
“I watched you,” he continues. “Flaunting your body. Flirting with all the men. Convincing them to give you special treatment. I’m sure you had sex with them to get what you wanted.”
Davis releases my face, shoving me backward as he lets go. With my arms stretched above me, bound by a rope looped over one of the basement crossbeams, and my feet barely touching the floor, the movement sends me swinging. The rope rubs against my already raw wrists, and a trickle of warm blood runs down my arm.
“Youarepretty,” he concedes, his face twisting as he says it. “I’ll give you that. And your body—” His hand shoots out to grab my breast. He squeezes it experimentally, like he’s testing the firmness of an orange in the grocery store. “I can see why men would be tempted.”
My skin crawls from his touch, and I have to fight myself to keep from kicking out at him. I tried that already and ended up with two more broken fingers to show for it.
As he lets go of my breast, he shoves me again. “Not me, though,” he says. “You’re not going to drag me into your game.”
Another rivulet of blood runs down my arm, its heat almost searing against my chilled skin. With my sweater hanging in torn shreds, it’s not much protection from the cool temperature in the basement. Despite the adrenaline that should be keeping me warm, I’m covered in goosebumps. Tiny shivers wrack my body.
It’s the panic. That’s why. Whenever I have a panic attack, I get chills all over. If circumstances were normal, I’d grab my weighted blanket and use that to help me get through it. But here, there’s no relief. No reprieve from the triggers that keep coming.
The blood. The sticky feel of it. Its coppery smell.
