Page 84 of Spock’s Snare

I squeeze my eyes shut and drag air through my nose. The sandwich he forced me to swallow sits like a stone in my stomach. My body tries to reject it, but I fight the convulsions. If I vomit while I’m tied like this, I could choke.

I refuse to die in this room. I refuse to let Steven Blackwood win.

I swallow repeatedly, forcing the nausea down. Sweat gathers along my hairline, and my arms tremble from the strain of fighting the restraints. Another cramp twists through my stomach. I breathe through it, counting silently until the worst of it passes.

One.

Two.

Three.

By ten, my stomach finally begins to settle.

I sag against the headboard, exhausted from the small battle. My breaths remain shallow because anything deeper hurts too much. I don’t know if the punch damaged something inside me. I can’t think about that now because panic and fear will not get me out of here.

I open my eyes and force myself to look around the room.

The tray rests crookedly on the mattress beside my hip. Blackwood left it behind when he stormed out. The sandwich is scattered across the plate, crumbs and torn pieces of bread covering the sheets. Potato chips spill all over. Then something on the tray catches the fading light. A narrow shard of glass lies among the potato chips.

A flicker of hope clears the remaining fog from my head. I glance toward the closed door and listen. Silence hangs on the other side. I don’t hear footsteps. No muttering. No movement at all.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t close.

I shift my body so my hip rests on the tray. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain, but I grit my teeth and keep going. With my hip, I shift the tray up the bed. I lift and lower my body as I shift the tray closer and closer to my face. With my teeth, I carefully snag the glass fragment. Turning my head, I can just reach it with my right hand. I feel my lip bleeding, but I ignore it. I know I don’t have much time.

Carefully, I pinch the glass between two fingers. It’s slick with soda and my blood, but I manage to turn it until the jagged edge faces the restraint around my wrists.

Hope surges through me, overriding the pain.

I don’t know how long Blackwood will stay away. I don’t know if the shard is strong enough to cut through the ties. I don’t even know if I can hold on to it while my hands are shaking this badly. But I do know that this is my best chance of getting the hell out of here.

I press the edge of the glass against the restraint and begin to saw.

The shard nicks my wrist. Warm blood trickles down my arm, but I don’t stop. I work through the pain, keeping my movements small and silent.

One stroke at a time gets me one step closer to freedom.

Eventually, the fibers fray beneath the edge, but progress is agonizingly slow. My fingers cramp from gripping the shard, and blood makes the glass slick. Every few seconds, I have to stop and adjust it before it slips from my grasp. So, it takes me longer than I want. I have to keep my movements silent because Blackwood could return at any moment.

The thought drives me forward. I saw harder, ignoring the sting each time the glass slices my skin instead of the rope. Sweat rolls down my temple. My shoulders burn from being held in the same position for so long.

Come on.

A slight tearing sound has me catching my breath. My right hand is free. A single tear drips down my cheek. A cry of joy surges into my throat when the binding finally breaks. I clamp my lips together to keep it from escaping.

My right hand is loose, but I’m not free yet. My left wrist is still tied to the bed frame. The rope holding it is short, keeping my arm pinned awkwardly beside me. Pain explodes through my stomach when I twist my body to reach it.

A sharp cry escapes before I can stop it. I freeze, horrified. My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the bedroom door, terrified that he’ll choose now to come in.

Moving more carefully, I shift onto my side. Nausea rises again, but I swallow it down. My newly freed right hand aches as I reach across my body. Blood covers my fingertips, and the cuts burn, but I still have the shard.

I position its edge against the rope securing my left wrist.

This time, it goes faster.

I can see what I’m doing, and I have better control over the glass—the rope parts after less than a minute. My left arm drops onto the mattress.

Now, both my hands are free.