If you pissed off an angry bear, you made sure it was down for good, so I acted accordingly.
Angling the body of the lamp to the side so that I didn’t accidentally impale myself on it, I rocked the chair, my bindings encouraging the forward momentum, praying for enough of it to push me over too.
Someone was eavesdropping—Da, for once?—because forward I flew and my knees collided with his stomach. When he groaned then began coughing, I had confirmation the bastard still lived, so I twisted the lamp in my hold and bludgeoned wherever I could hit.
Once he stopped cupping his dick to defend himself, I targeted his penis. The downside was that freed his hands. He yanked my hair again to get me to stop, but I wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Stopping meant a beating that’d make my earlier treatment look like a walk in the park. Or, of course, there’d beworseconsequences that every woman knew to fear.
Hell, in his rage, he could kill me.
AND I WAS NOT GOING TO DIE TONIGHT.
He could tear off great chunks of my hair at the root for all I cared—so long as I survived, it’d grow back.
I carried on hitting him.
Over and over.
Blood spattered—I didn’t heed it.
Over and over.
His groans turned into drowsy moans.
Over and over and fucking over.
Until he lost consciousness and I was on the brink of joining him.
Unfortunately for me, this was only phase one of the escape plan.
Pushing my head into his stomach, ignoring the stench of unwashed man, I gathered my flailing strength—adrenaline could only do so much—and twisted as best as I could to force the chair into flipping onto its side.
It took more than I had to give.
Tears leaked from my eyes. Exhausted, weary, scared tears.
It was the latter that fortified me.
“Kitty Frasier isn’t afraid of anyone,” I proclaimed, needing to hear the blatant lie from my own lips, with my own voice.
I tried again. And again. Each time, a sob burst free, but I used it to empower me.
Eventually, when I gathered enough energy to twist over, I managed to half-land on him, whimpering in relief as only my knees knocked into the grody floor. Phase two complete, I began phase three by delving into his pockets, trying to find anything that’d cut me loose.
Locating a pocketknife, I wished like fuck I could swipe my hands over my cheeks—the tracks tears left behind were a distraction I couldn’t afford.
“Get yourself together, girl. He could wake up any minute.”
Realistically, I had time before he came to, but there was no room for hope, only pragmatism.
Borderline surgical pragmatism at that.
I turned the knife onto my bindings and realized then the blade was dull.
A gasp stole much-needed oxygen from my straining lungs, but I worked through the rope, securing my top half to the chair to give me freedom of movement as I prepared for what needed to be done.
