His hand clamps down on my jaw, holding me in place, and my body vibrates uncontrollably under his grip. He’s so close now, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin, the oppressive weight of him pressing against me. He brings his mouth to my ear, and for a moment, I stop breathing. I freeze, waiting for whatever comes next,hoping—praying—that I’ll hear something familiar in his voice. But the silence is worse than anything he could say.
But then a chilling, deep voice cuts through it. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
I’m slammed down hard into a chair, the impact jolting through my entire body.
That didn’t sound like Saint.
My breath leaves me in a sharp, panicked gasp, and the shock of it makes everything feel more surreal. Is this someone else entirely? Am I actually in real danger?
Tears spill down my cheeks, sliding into my mouth. I can taste the salt as I sob.
The uncertainty wraps itself around my throat, making it even harder to breathe.Was that Saint?Since I can’t recognize his voice, the fear bubbling inside me only grows stronger, more suffocating. My heart pounds so hard I’m afraid it might stop.
I try to jump up out of the chair—somehow willing myself to escape—but I’m not fast enough. Before I can even get my feet under me, hands clamp on my wrists with bruising force, shoving me back down. The grip is so tight it feels like my bones are being crushed. I wince in pain, but my mouth is quickly covered with a strip of tape. The adhesive sticks instantly, pressing tightly against my lips, sealing off any chance of screaming for help. I can feel the tape pulling at my skin, trapping me in silence.
Please let this be Saint.
I don’t know why I’m still hoping it’s him, because at this point it doesn’t matter. Even if it’s Saint, I’m in pain and I’m scared and I’m crying. But the thought of it being someone else—someone with worse intentions—makes my blood run cold.
My arms are yanked behind me with such force that a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my shoulder, up my arm, and straight to my spine. I cry out, but the sound barely escapes my throat before it’sswallowed by the tape. The muffled noise is all I can manage as my hands are tightly bound together behind the chair. The rough texture of the rope digs into my skin, burning with every movement.
I wince, gritting my teeth behind the tape, trying to ignore the searing pain radiating from my wrists. The rope bites into my skin so hard it feels like it’s cutting through, like I’ll start bleeding at any moment.How did this happen? How did I get here?The panic is overwhelming, but I try to focus—try to think of something,anything, that will help me get out of this.
I manage to get in a few desperate kicks, my legs flailing out in a last-ditch effort to break free. My feet connect with something solid—a body, maybe his legs—but it doesn’t slow him down. He grunts, and for a split second, I feel a surge of triumph, but it’s short-lived. His hands clamp down on my ankles with brutal force, pinning them to the floor long enough to secure them with more rope. I fight, I thrash, but it’s no use. My feet are tied to the legs of the chair so tightly that I can’t even wiggle my toes without feeling the strain.
Tears spill from my eyes, unbidden and uncontrollable. The more time that passes, the less control I have over my body and mind. My vision blurs as the tears mix with panic, making everything seem distorted, more chaotic.
This is real. This is actually happening.
There’s no way Saint would let this game go this far,I tell myself, trying to cling to some shred of hope. He wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t let me be in this much pain.
For the first time since I woke up just minutes ago, the cold realization sinks in:I might not make it out of this.For the first time, I truly feel like my life is in danger.
My body goes still. The adrenaline that had me thrashing and fighting just moments ago begins to drain away, leaving me numb and paralyzed by fear. I try to stop the tears, knowing they won’t help me now.
I need to calm down.I have to think.
My breath comes in shaky bursts as I force myself to focus.
Think, Petra. Think.
I can’t move my hands, can’t even flex my fingers without the rope digging into my wrists. My legs are equally trapped, every slight movement sending sharp pain up my calves. I’m completely bound to the chair, every inch of me immobilized.
What do I do?
I hear noises behind me—things crashing to the floor. The sound is sudden, violent. I jump at each crash, my muscles tensing involuntarily. My ears strain to pick up every sound, trying to figure out what he’s doing. I can hear drawers being yanked open, slamming shut, one after another. Panic grips me again, but this time it’s icy cold, settling deep in my bones.
Is he looking for something? A knife?
The thought chills me to the core, my mind racing with horrible possibilities. I can barely breathe as the minutes stretch on, filled with the chaotic noises of his search.
What is he planning?
The longer the noise continues, the more my heart sinks. I’m stuck, powerless, with no way to defend myself or even see what’s happening behind me. Every crash feels like a countdown, like the seconds ticking away before he makes his next move. I pray he’s not finding whatever he’s looking for. I pray he’s not preparing for something far worse.
Just when I think I can’t bear the tension any longer, a new sound cuts through the air. The front door opens.
It doesn’t close.
