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Blood runs down my wrists, a rush of debilitating fear mingling with it.
And she’s gone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The metal bites into my raw skin, and I drop my hands into my lap.
Think, Phoenix. Think.
But there’s nothing.
I don’t have my phone or any other way to contact someone, nor do I have any tools to get out of these handcuffs.
I have nothing.
Now that I’m alone, I turn away from the camera and let go of the brave face for a moment.
I breathe deeply, sitting limply with my hands still in my lap. I can’t exhaust myself. I need to conserve every ounce of energy.
Think, Phoenix. Fuck. Think.
There’s nothing I could use to try to free us, absolutely nothing. I stare blankly around the room. It’s barren except for the bed and a chair in the far corner. It’s a different kind of prison, this time made out of wood and insulation, but a prison all the same.
I still can’t believe Tyler is the reason I was locked up. Or that I survived three years behind bars to have this be my end.
Sweat beads around my hairline, and I wipe it away, flinching when metal comes in contact with my raw skin.
I don’t even know the guy.
What is he doing with her right now?
Where did he take her?
Is he touching her?
A feral growl comes from deep in my throat, and I wish I could punch something, or better yet, wrap my hands around Tyler’s throat.
Why is he doing all of this?
I hate that none of this makes sense. It wouldn’t change the situation to understand his reasons, but the confusion only adds to the mindfuck.
I sag against the metal headboard and push my handcuffs up my arms and as far away from my open skin as possible. It’s not much, maybe an inch, but it gives my wrists at least a small break.
You should have thought about that sooner, dumbwit.
Well, it is what it is.
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head so it’s angled toward the doorframe and listen. There’s some chatter in the distance, but it’s either too far away or too quiet to make out any details.
Tyler said he’s taking her for a walk, so that means he’ll bring her back, right? Hehasto.
There is no other option.
He’ll die, no matter what. But if he hurts a single hair on her head, he’ll be begging for a quick death. All the rage I built up behind bars toward Eve, the desire for vengeance, all of it finally has a real target. The real perpetrator.
An image of him lying in a puddle of his own blood and staring at me with vacant eyes flashes in my mind.
That’s more like it.
He will find his end soon.