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My brain hurts trying to reconcile everything going on around me. I huff out uneven breaths and urge myself to calm the hell down.
It’s like the thunderstorms all over again. My nerves take over and make it damn near impossible to think straight and function.
Mason’s words yet again echo in my head.
We are our experiences. You are who you are ’cuz of that night. You survived that thunderstorm, and you’ll survive this one, too.
“I’ll survive,” I whisper shakily. And then again, more confidently. “I’ll survive. I’m going to fucking survive… and I’m going to fuck them up the first chance I get!”
First things first. These chains.
I keep my eye on the door for several seconds, then switch to the water heater. If I stretch my leg out, I might be able to reach the pipe the chain’s attached to. I might be able to get a few good kicks in and damage the pipe.
It’s no brilliant breakout plan… but it’s a start.
Again, I check the coast is still clear at the door. No one seems to be around. They’ve left me alone for now in what I’m guessing is the backroom of some kind of building.
I position my leg at a strategic angle and then kick as hard as I can. I’m putting so much effort into the move that I almost grunt. Instead I bite down on my bottom lip, drawing blood, to keep the feisty, determined sound in.
Then I do it again—I kick and kick and kick. I jam my boot at the pipe so hard it reverberates in my bones. There’s a good chance I’ll be sore and achy tomorrow, but I don’t care. Surviving to see tomorrow is all I ask at this moment.
Minutes pass and I don’t give up. I only grow more stubborn about denting the hell out of this pipe enough that I’m able to force my freedom. Sweat drips from my brow and I’ve rubbed my wrist raw after so many jerky movements.
And still I keep going.
It becomes my single greatest mission in life—bust this pipe enough that I can pull the chain off.
The longer I go, the more progress I make. The pipe develops a large dent in the middle that only pushes me harder. I drive my boot into it so many times, I zone out of the moment.
The next thing I know, the pipe busts with a deafening creak, and water sprays everywhere.
Shit!
There’s no way they didn’t hear that.
I hurry, wrestling with the other end of the chain to get it off the broken pipe, and then I dash for the only feasible exit—the narrow window high up on the far wall. It’ll be a tight fit, but I can squeeze myself through.
I’m footsteps away when the door flies open and four men pile into the room.
“FUCKING GRAB HER!”
I dodge the first guy. He closes in with his thick arms swiping at me.
I duck at the last second and then beeline for the window. I’m already aware as I grab onto the ledge and attempt to hoist myself up, it’s a losing battle.
Another Reaper yanks me away from behind and tosses me to the ground. I land in a roll that crushes my ribs and steals air from my lungs. The same guy kicks me in the same ribs.
Three times.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells, drawing his boot back for another blow.
“Zane, chill. We don’t want to break her,” says a guy I recognize from the motel. He’s on the slimmer side, with shoulder-length silvery hair. He catches my eye and holds my gaze. “There’s other things we can do first.”
An immediate sickness poisons my stomach. I cough and attempt to crawl away.
The first burly guy who tried and missed me earlier takes it upon himself to get payback. He snatches me up by the hair, making my scalp ache from how hard he pulls. I’m forced to my feet and held in his arms as the man with the ginger beard produces a pocketknife.
“Get the fuck off me!” I scream, twisting nonstop. I try to step on the burly guy’s toes. I throw my head back to catch him that way, and I even spit at the one approaching with the knife.
