I’ve spent the last two days working on them whenever the guards aren’t watching, and I’ve finally made progress. The fibers dig into my wrists every time I twist my arms, rubbing the skin bloody, but that’s a good thing. Blood makes the ropes slippery. Slippery is good.
I’ve fallen into a rhythm. When footsteps sound in the corridor, I go still and let my head droop like I’m too weak to stay alert. When the footsteps fade, I start working again. Twist, pull, twist, pull. The movements are small enough that they won’t draw attention if someone glances through the slot in the door, but persistent enough that the rope loosens a little more with each passing hour.
My wrists are a mess. The skin broke open sometime during the first night, and it hasn’t had a chance to heal. Every time I move, fresh blood wells up and mingles with the dried crust already coating my hands. If I were treating a patient with wounds like these, I’d insist on antibiotics and sterile bandages. Instead, I’m using the blood as lubricant and hoping I don’t develop an infection before I get out of here.
Dina has been watching me from her cell, hopeful. She’s been working at her own bonds, too, though her progress is slower. Weeks of captivity have left her weaker than me. Her muscles have atrophied from lack of food and movement, and her energy reserves are low.
The guards feed us once a day—stale bread and water that tastes like rust—but it’s not enough to maintain any real strength. I’ve only been here two days, and I can already feel thedifference in my body. Dina has had to endure this for almost a month.
But she hasn’t given up. Every time I catch her eye, she gives me a small nod that says she’s still trying.
We don’t talk much during the day. The guards pass by too frequently, and we can’t risk them overhearing anything useful. But at night, when the patrols thin out and the one remaining guard tends to doze off around the fourth hour, we whisper back and forth through the bars.
Dina has told me everything she knows about the compound. The layout of the tunnels, the location of the exits, and the best times to move if we manage to get free. The service entrance on the eastern side is our best bet—it leads up to a loading dock that opens directly onto a mountain road. If we can make it that far without being caught, we might have a chance of disappearing into the forest before anyone realizes we’re gone.
I’ve memorized it all, and I’ve turned her words into a mental map that I review over and over while I work at my ropes. Left at the first junction, straight through the maintenance corridor, up two flights of stairs, then right toward the loading bay. I repeat it like a prayer.
Left, straight, up, right. Left, straight, up, right.
The morning of the second day arrives with the usual sounds—boots on concrete, the clang of metal doors, and the grumbles of guards changing shifts. I count the footsteps like Dina taught me. Four sets during the day, two at night. The scarred one is on duty now. I can tell by the way he drags his feet, like he’s too lazy to pick them up properly.
He pauses outside my cell, and I let my head fall to the side like I’m barely conscious.
“Still alive in there?” he mocks. “Boss wants you breathing for a while longer, but don’t worry. That won’t last forever.”
I don’t respond. Don’t even twitch. Playing dead is easier than engaging with him, and it has the added benefit of making him underestimate me. He thinks I’m weak, broken, and ready to give up. Let him keep thinking that.
After a moment, he grunts and moves on. His footsteps fade down the corridor, and I wait until I can’t hear them anymore before I start working on the ropes again.
Twist. Pull. Twist. Pull.
The fibers give a little more.
“Skylar.” Dina’s whisper barely reaches me through the bars. “Someone’s coming. It sounds like Rafe.”
I freeze and listen. She’s right. These footsteps are quicker than the guards’. They’re heading straight for our cells without any of the meandering pauses that mark a routine patrol.
Definitely Rafe.
I slump against the wall and close my eyes, making myself look as defeated as possible. The metal door screeches open, and I hear him step inside. His breathing is heavier than it was during his last visit. Something has changed since yesterday.
“Look at me.”
I open my eyes slowly, like the effort costs me all my strength. Rafe stands in front of my cell with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His body vibrates with fury, and the mask he wore during our first meeting has cracked. Underneath it, I can see something wild and desperate clawing to get out.
“I said, look at me!” He slams his palm against the bars, and the sound reverberates through the concrete room.
I meet his eyes without flinching. “I’m looking.”
“Your mate. Your precious Bryan. He’s not coming for you. Did you know that? It’s been two days, and he hasn’t even tried to mount a rescue. Some mate he turned out to be.”
I keep my face blank, but my heart stutters in my chest. He’s not wrong. I’ve had the same thought myself. If Bryan was going to rescue me, he’d have done it by now.
“He’s probably already moved on,” Rafe continues as he paces back and forth in front of my cell. “Found some other woman to warm his bed. That’s what men like him do. They take what they want, and then they leave when things get difficult. He left you once before, didn’t he? Walked away without a word and never looked back. What makes you think this time will be any different?”
He’s trying to get under my skin. I know that. But the words still burrow into the soft places inside me, finding all the fears I’ve tried so hard to bury. What if he’s right? What if Bryan isn’t coming? What if I’m going to die in this cell, alone, still wondering whether what we had was real or just the bond playing tricks on us both?
No. I push the thoughts away and concentrate on keeping my breathing steady. Bryan will come. He has to come. And if he doesn’t, I’ll find my own way out. I’m not going to sit here and wait for death like some helpless damsel in a fairy tale.
