Rats could smell blood. Her wrists and ankles were wet.
They’d be on her soon. Sniffing her. Licking her. Biting her. She couldn’t fend them off. She couldn’t get away. She couldn’t do anything but suck in great panting lungfuls of dry, dusty air and flail her bound limbs against the locked pantry door.
And scream.
Chapter 47
Evangeline awoke in total blackness.
She reached out for Gavin and—couldn’t reach, hands bound—pantry—Gavin was just a dream. The back of her head thumped dully against the floor. She writhed in the dark, struggling against the twine that bound her bruised ankles and raw wrists.
No. She would escape even if she had to chew off her arm. Where were the rats? Perhaps they could chew her arm off for her. She bit back a hysterical giggle. No chewing. Rats must be asleep. Focus.
She rolled to her side. Twisted. Grappled for her ankles. The binding was too tight to slip more than the pad of one finger beneath the cord. Too tight. Too tight. Digging into her skin. Hurt. Pull anyway.Pull.
Nothing.
Her heartbeat quickened. She tugged on the twine. Sweat dampened her skin. The shadows shifted. She couldn’t breathe. Listen. Wheezing gasps. Her breathing was too shallow. Short, desperate gulps of air. Calm down.Try. No panting. No passing out again. Must escape.
Her ankles throbbed. Her feet were numb. Her wrists were numb. Could she free her hands? Keeping her elbows tight together, she folded her arms until the back of her right wrist grazed her chin. Tight. Hurt. Ignoring the biting pain and the slick, tangy blood coating the cording, she bared her teeth and sawed at the twine, tugging and pulling and yanking and chewing.
She gasped, recoiled, spat. What the hell was that? Cobwebs? Hair? No. Thread. A bit of the twine had unraveled. Good. Try again.
Tears streamed down her cheeks when she finally bit through one of the strands of bloody twine. Her teeth tore at the rest of the cording, ripping the rope from her burning wrists. The dusty air stung the open wounds. Free. Her hands were free.
She lay back, arms raised, and rotated her wrists until feeling returned to her fingertips. So dark. The walls were closer, tighter, she was sure of it. Closing in. Suffocating her. No. She freed her wrists, she could free her ankles.
How? She scrabbled at the twine until her fingernails tore. Still tied. Still helpless.
A faint knocking noise. Someone paying a call? If they came inside, she could scream for help.That was why her stepfather never allowed an outsider inside.
She lifted her head. Tried to scoot toward the door.
Ouch. Something thin and sharp sliced the back of her calf. What cut her? She flopped around, patting the floor until her fingers closed around a sovereign-sized shard of glass. Smelled like whisky. A sharp piece of the tumbler her stepfather had thrown. Sharp enough to cut her—sharp enough to cut twine?
She sawed at the cording. Her fingers flayed as much as the rope, but at last a strand snapped in two. She yanked the twine free, massaged her tender ankles. A thousand prickles burst along her skin as blood rushed to her numb feet.
Voices. Whose voices? Neal, of course, and…Gavin? Here? Could it be possible?
Evangeline leapt to her feet, fell back down, and then hauled herself back up gingerly with one hand clutching the locked doorknob. ItwasGavin.
She banged her fists against the unforgiving door and screamed his name. Evangeline could see nothing. She could only listen.
Noises. Scuffling. Rapid footfalls.
Gavin’s voice: “Evangeline! Where are you?”
Neal’s voice: “None of your business.”
Gavin: “I’m making it my business.”
The door handle jiggled.
Neal: “You can’t have her. She’s mine.”
Gavin: “I’m hers. Now open that door.”
Neal: “Never. She disobeyed me. She knew the punishment.”
