Page 8

CHAPTER 7

W hen they left, my body finally gave into the darkness, and when I wake, I want to slide back into that comforting numbness, but I know if I do, I will die.

They won’t get that satisfaction from me. I am not dying here. Despite my injuries and the fact that my body is dying, I plan my escape just like I was the entire time they were torturing me.

My one ruined hand is still free, and I reach behind me, ignoring the agony this causes, and start working on the lock with the stolen bit of metal I pulled from my thigh after they beat me with pipes. It’s short and jagged and should be enough to unlock the shackles. It’s hard when I can’t see, so I close my eyes to focus, my clumsy fingers slipping in the blood, but I force them to move anyway. It takes longer than I would like, but when the lock clicks, my eyes snap open. Tugging my hand free, I cradle my ruined one to my chest and glance at the door. It will be unlocked. The entire facility is locked down tight, so the doors stay open while prisoners are chained.

Besides, the fools were in such a rush, they left it open, like a fucking meal ticket . . . if I can get my legs to work.

I look down at the ruined meat of my thighs and take a deep breath, but I instantly regret it, having forgotten about my lung.

“This is going to fucking hurt,” I say loudly, and then I throw myself forward, the shackles on my feet long gone to give them better access to cut my toes and ankles. I hit the concrete hard, and the blow reverberates through my body. I know I won’t be able to walk, so I start to drag myself across the floor.

My thighs bleed with every movement, and the pain is so overwhelming, I have to stop. Turning my head, I throw up, noticing the blood before I snap my head back around and crawl forward with gritted teeth.

I’m running out of time.

If I can just get out of here, I can survive.

I have to.

I refuse to die here.

It’s the one thing that keeps me going when my body wants to give in and the pain becomes overwhelming.

Each torturous inch of dragging myself to that metal door feels like fire burning on my wounds as blood smears behind me. I know I must look like pulverised meat.

All that keeps me going is the thought of revenge.

When I finally reach the metal door, I give myself a second to breathe through the agony before I slap my blood-covered hand across the door until I can reach the handle. I yank it down, but my hand slips, and I fall, hitting the floor once more.

Gritting my teeth, I press my side to the wall and start to force myself up to my feet. My legs give way at least twice before I manage to stand somewhat, though I am mostly propped up by the wall, my entire body shaking and going cold.

The chill of death flows through me, cooling the fire in my blood. I thought the pain was bad . . .

The numbness that starts to flow through me is scarier than the pain.

No, no, no.

I can almost feel the touch of death as it tries to embrace me, and with one last Herculean effort, I force the door open, my body giving way as I fall through the doorframe and right into someone’s arms.

The last things I see before everything goes black are familiar dark eyes and a worried frown. Another set of brown orbs lingers over their shoulder, making my own widen for a moment.

“Hang in there, angel. I’ve got you.”

“Shamus.”

His name is a breath, a plea.

I cling to it as I fall into the darkness once more.