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At least it’s empty—but not empty of food. I’m not trying to be picky, and I’m not trying to take a lot of time, which is why I grab for the protein bars in the first cabinet I open. At least I know they’re good from eating them before. I grab two, then snatch a bottle of water from the fridge. I’m probably better off dashing back upstairs where I can be alone. As boring as it is up there, it’s better than running the risk of being discovered wandering around down here.
I’m halfway to the stairs when I hear his heavy footfalls coming down the hall. It’s amazing the panic that blooms in my chest when I hear his footsteps, the terror that races through me while I look around for someplace to hide. If he can’t see me, he can’t use me as a way of venting his anger. That’s all that matters right now, making sure he doesn’t use me.
But there’s nowhere to hide, and now he’s coming down the stairs. I’m frantic, but I finally settle on taking a seat at the kitchen table for lack of anywhere else to go. I’m just going to sit here and behave myself. I’m sure he walked past the open bedroom door anyway, so he has to know I’m around somewhere. Maybe if he finds me sitting here like this instead of testing the lock on the front door, it will earn me some trust.
By the time he reaches the living room and looks through to where I’m sitting, I’ve already unwrapped one of the protein bars and am munching quietly. Our gazes meet, but he’s the first to look away. It wasn’t fast enough to hide his scowl, though. I guess I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself to sneak down here. Then again, he hasn’t said anything, so who knows? Trying to figure out what he’s thinking is a total waste of time. I can’t predict him.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him cross the room, heading to the bar cart set up between the living room and kitchen. He doesn’t say a word or even glance my way, pouring himself a drink that he quickly throws back in one quick, smooth motion. How does he do that? I’d be gasping and choking right now if I even tried.
Instead of setting the glass down, he only refills it, then turns his back to me in favor of flopping down on the sofa and turning on the TV. Soon, the ear-splitting sounds of an action movie drown out the thudding of my heart. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, especially if it keeps him occupied.
He’s got to be just as tired as I am now. I doubt he’s gotten any sleep after Prince’s close call. I lean back in my chair a little, so I can see him, sitting there with his drink in his hand, resting on his knee. He’s staring at the TV, but I get the feeling he’s not actually seeing anything in front of him.
He’s practically chugging whiskey, and after everything he put me through today, I can’t help but think he’s preparing for something. Psyching himself up. Am I being overly paranoid, or is this my intuition telling me to get ready in case something bad happens?
He didn’t even think to get mad at me for being in the kitchen, where there are knives and other potential weapons. Granted, I didn’t think about stealing any of them, which kind of makes me wonder about myself. I’ll chalk it up to fatigue.
Now it’s too late to arm myself, of course. He’ll see if I get up and grab a knife. I might as well use that knife to slit my own throat since that’s probably what he’d end up doing with it anyway.
The energy in the air is enough to make my skin crawl. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. Why is he sitting there, sipping the whiskey he almost filled the entire glass with? What’s he planning? He’s got to be planning something.
Dammit, I have to get out of here. Even if he isn’t planning something, he’s going to end up getting drunk if he isn’t already. What happens if he decides to hurt me for real? It’s bad enough he is already frustrated since things don’t seem to be going his way. I can’t sit here and let this happen. My skin’s crawling, my palms are sweating, and I’m about to scream from the tension.
When his head starts to nod, I think I’ve found my way out.
But that’s only part of the puzzle. Sure, if he passes out, it leaves me free to escape. But I can’t just walk out of here wearing nothing but a dress shirt and panties, can I? What’s the alternative? Going upstairs, hoping to find a pair of pants with a drawstring in that enormous closet? Because anything of his will drop right off me otherwise.
Then again, the shirt falls halfway down my thighs—it’s not much shorter than the dress I was wearing when I got here. And if it means getting away, I can stand the embarrassment of being discovered while half-naked and barefoot. So long as I’m discovered. So long as it means getting away.
My pulse is racing, and I can barely hold myself still as nervous energy begins to make my limbs shake. I still have to hold back, waiting to see if he’ll finally lose consciousness. I doubt he would go to bed without forcing me to do the same, so he has to fall asleep where he is.
Which means I’ll have to sneak past him and open the door quietly enough that he won’t be roused. Well, he might have done me a favor with his choice of entertainment since the gunfire and explosions on the TV will probably drown out the sound of the door swinging open. I only hope the action doesn’t die off at the wrong moment. Wouldn’t that just be my luck? No. I can’t even afford to think that way. This is going to be fine. Everything is going to turn out just the way I need it to. I need to think that way.
The only other thing I need is my bag, which is still sitting on the floor on the other side of the sofa. He hasn’t touched it since he left it there after finding the drugs inside. I could sneak past him to get it, right? I have to. There’s no other choice.
Come on, come on, go to sleep. My body is a live wire, every ounce of my attention focused on whether he’s asleep or awake. Whether he’s pretending or not. What if he’s faking it to see what I’ll do? What if this is all a way of testing me?
I can’t afford to think that way. I can’t talk myself out of this, no matter how scary it is. I can’t let him wear me down until I stop trying to save myself. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome. I’m not going to let it happen.
Finally, his chin touches his chest. I can hardly breathe, I’m so scared.You can do this. One step at a time. I can’t afford to let fear get in the way, so I make a mistake.
Once a few minutes pass, and it seems like he might legitimately be asleep, I rise from the chair as quietly as possible and begin tiptoeing into the living room. There’s still plenty of action going on in the movie, so I use it to my advantage, slipping past him before slowly bending down to reach for my bag on the other side of the sofa. I never take my eyes off him, noting the way his chest rises and falls slowly, evenly. He might even be snoring a little, but I can’t quite tell over the sound of a brutal fight going on on the screen behind me.
Finally, I pick up the bag and begin backing away, still watching him for even the slightest twitch. He’s out cold; what little is left of his second drink sitting on the coffee table. Maybe that’s all it took to finally calm down enough that the action and tension of the past couple of days have caught up to him.
I reach out behind me with one hand, feeling around for the door. My fingertips touch the wood, and I start creeping closer to the knob, which I finally close my fingers around. Not so much as a twitch from him yet. Oh, god, this could be it. I could escape.
But not quite yet. I have to finally pry my eyes away from him to find the lock. I turn it slowly, holding my breath, my gaze darting back and forth between it and the man I’m seconds away from escaping. So close.
Finally, with the lock disengaged, I have to go for it. I turn the knob and ease the door open just far enough to slide through.
And that’s all it takes. I’m free. Standing on the front step, fresh air hits my face, stirring the shirt around my thighs. For one brief, beautiful moment, I’m invincible. Nothing can touch me. I did the thing that scared me the most, and I lived through it.
What a shame my feet leave the step a split second later. A scream rips from my throat but is cut off by a hand clamping over my mouth. “Fucking bitch,” Enzo snarls, carrying me back into the house while I kick my feet as an attack, even though it doesn’t help. Right now, nothing will help.
Disappointment rushes through me. I was so close. Now he’s going to kill me for sure. He hauls me upstairs to the bedroom—each step up the stairs brings me closer to what has to be certain death. I claw and scratch at his hands and arms, but it does me no good. I might as well not fight him at all. As soon as we enter the room, he tosses me onto the bed in a screaming heap.
“I’m sorry! Please, don’t hurt me!” I know it’s no use, that I might as well be talking to myself, but it pours out of me all at once.
