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Her eyes flash with hurt. “You don’t know anything about him or me, Sabrina,” she says, taking a step closer to my chair. “You’re just jealous. I know you are.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort. “Why would I be jealous of someone who’s been manipulated by an older man? Used by him like a fucking pawn?”
I think about the Sinners—about how each of them proved they’re truly on my side. About how the anger and distrust between us changed and grew into something real and solid. Something that feels a whole hell of a lot like…
My heart constricts in my chest, and I wrench my thoughts away from the men. I can’t think about that right now, can’t consider how deep my feelings for them go.
When I get out of this fucking place, then I’ll think about it. But not now.
“Alan needs me,” Reagan says emphatically, pulling my attention back to her. “He needs my help. Ever since you showed back up in town, I know he’s been worried. He’s too good of a man to do what needs to be done sometimes, and that’s why I had to step in. His wife never truly understood him, but I do. He respects me and wants me… and I’m his favorite.”
My stomach rolls. Jesus fucking Christ. He must’ve been spoon-feeding her lies since the beginning, since we were little girls. I know she has a fighting streak in her, I know she’s strong—she got the better of me in the woods, something not many people could manage to do. But Alan makes her weak. Why does she keep letting him use her?
But as a shy smile spreads across her lips, I realize why she keeps doing it. Why she wants his approval so damn much.
“Oh my god. You love him, don’t you?” I ask quietly.
Her gaze falters, her jaw clenching. She takes another step toward me, glaring as she bends to bring her eyes level with mine. Her face is only a few inches away, and the light that burns in her irises makes me queasy.
“It’s none of your fucking business,” she hisses. “You never understood. You could never—”
I don’t think. I just act. As Reagan leans in, I make a split second choice that could get me in a lot more shit if it doesn’t work. I swing my head forward and I headbutt her as hard as fucking possible. My skull screams with pain as our foreheads collide. Reagan stumbles backward with a choked cry, and I overbalance in my chair, pitching to the floor with a heavy thud.
The wooden frame of the chair cracks loudly, and my body pulses in agony as my cheek hits the cement, but something new pounds through my veins alongside the pain—adrenaline. I know I’ve only got seconds to work with, seconds to escape.
I thrash violently, taking advantage of the cracks in the wood. The wooden frame breaks apart even more, and I wrench my arms as hard as I can. The ropes are loosened without the chair to hold to, but they’re still a tangle of knots around my wrists and legs as I try to shove them off.
Escape, escape, escape.
The word pounds in my skull like a heartbeat as I finally manage to free one arm, then a leg. Reagan's moan of pain turns to a scream of fury as she launches herself toward me. The ropes slacken just in time as I push myself up off the ground and absorb the blow of her body against my shoulder.
She’s insane. Whatever the hell happened to her in this room, and in the years since she got out, it’s driven her crazy.
She fights like a wild animal, a feral cat—with fists and claws and teeth. But our fight last night took as much out of her as it did out of me. She’s weaker and sloppier. Maybe I am too, but there’s so much rage and adrenaline surging through me that I don’t feel any of my exhaustion.
I throw an elbow that catches her on the cheek, and as her head whips to the side, I lunge for the door, ignoring the burning pain in my body. When she scrambles after me, I kick her in the stomach, sending her hurtling backward.
Stay the fuck down, bitch.
Part of me wants to lose myself in my fury, in the rage that seems to live inside me all the time. I want to go after her like I went after Cliff that night. I want to keep hitting her until my knuc
kles are painted with her blood and I’m certain that she’ll never get back up again.
But I don’t. I don’t have fucking time. Alan could come back any minute, and if I’m still here when he walks in, I’ll be dead for sure.
So I satisfy myself with one more punch as Reagan tries to come after me again. I put every bit of my rage behind it, and she goes down hard, her body hitting the floor like a sack of bricks.
Not even bothering to look back at her, I wheel and lurch toward the door again. My fingers wrap around the handle, and when it turns in my grip, I sag with relief.
I wrench the door open and slam it behind me, turning the lock. Distantly, I think that Alan must have some faith in Reagan to leave her alone with me in an unlocked room, but I don’t have time to analyze what kind of fucked up relationship the two of them have.
I need to get out.
Who knows how many minutes—seconds—I might have. Who knows if Alan has a string of guards and thugs, if he has cameras everywhere, seeing everything.
So I run.
I run with everything left in me, even though my muscles and lungs are burning. I’m in some sort of bunker, and even though I barely remember this place, my body seems to remember it somehow—as if the layout has been imprinted on my soul. The tunnels are narrow, shadowy, twisting and turning in every direction. I have no fucking clue where I’m going, whether I’m going somewhere worse or getting closer to finding my way out, but I keep running.
