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THE BLOW FROM HIS BOOT caught her smack in the face, sending her flying backwards. Pain exploded through her nose. She slammed into the floor, her head smacking against the hard concrete with an impossibly loud crack that sounded as though it had happened right inside her head. The impact jolted through her bones, her teeth snapping shut, catching the side of her tongue. Fireworks burst behind her eyes, and her mind spun in a slow, dizzying circle. All she could taste was blood, thick and cloying, as it ran down the back of her throat, making her choke.
She lay there, unable to move. The pain in her face was so overwhelming, her body didn’t seem to be able to process anything else. Her vision flashed with bright white sparks, as though she’d been staring at the sun for too long, or had caught the flash of a camera. For a moment, she even forgot where she was, and her situation. All she could do was try to get her body to start processing things again, instead of being muted by the pain.
Broken. Her nose must be broken. Her entire face throbbed with the rhythm of her pulse. The blood continued to flow, spilling down her face and running down the back of her throat. She was lying on her back, and she knew she needed to move if she didn’t want to choke to death on her own blood. Had a person ever died of a broken nose before? The idea seemed ridiculous, but it wasn’t just the kick to the face that had left her stunned, it was also the impact of the back of her head against the concrete floor. Now she knew how he’d felt when she’d hit him with the bottle.
Fuck.
Realisation jolted through her, sending a fresh spurt of adrenaline through her veins. When he’d kicked her, one of his hands had been loosened from the rope. He was most likely working that hand free right now, and the second it was loose, he’d be able to pull the gag out of his mouth.
Terror coursed through her system in equal measure to the pain. Was this it? Had she lost? After everything she’d been through, this would be the end. What would he make her do? The same as the others, or would he ensure it was even worse to punish her for what she’d done to him? She’d never find out her location either—another innocent left to die.
A sob bubbled up inside her, but it came out of her mouth as a groan.
Move! A voice inside her head commanded. You’ve got to move!
This wasn’t over yet. He wasn’t free.
She couldn’t let him win, not after everything. He wouldn’t get his hand free right away. It would take time, which meant she still had time. All she needed to do was force herself to her feet and get back over to him. If she could tighten the knot before he freed himself, things would go back to the way they’d been before she’d made such a stupid mistake.
Except if he can’t write, then you’ll have no way of getting him to tell you the truth. She couldn’t risk getting that close to him again to hold up the notepad, or loosen his hand enough to hold a pen. Plus, you have a broken nose and are bleeding all over the damn place.
But the possibility of securing him again was enough to get her moving. She rolled onto her stomach and somehow managed to push herself to all fours. Her head felt like a dead weight, hanging from her neck, as though her skull had been filled with concrete. Blood dripped from her face and onto the floor below. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. Come on, move faster, the voice in her head urged her on, but she struggled to get her body to comply.
The grunts and laboured breathing of him trying to escape came from behind her. Like her, he must have known time was running out. He’d want to get free before she came back to her senses.
With monumental effort, she managed to get one foot flat on the floor, and then the second, so she ended up in a strange, bloodied, downward dog position. From there, her hands went to her thighs, and she straightened.
The change in position only made her face throb more, and she was forced to hold still for a moment as the room spun around her.
Her equilibrium returned, and she wiped the blood from her eyes and turned to face him.
He still hung from the hook in the ceiling. He hadn’t yet managed to free himself. His right hand was almost loose, however, the fingers bunched in together as the tight loop of rope squeezed up his hand. He saw that she was back on her feet, and his eyes widened, his struggles renewing with fresh urgency.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Her voice was a low growl, rattling with congealed blood. It didn’t sound like her at all.
The man yelled against the gag, the sound coming out muffled, and he refocused on his hand. The rope was almost off now, squeezing his thumb and finger together, making the circumference as small as possible so he could pull it out of the loop.
“No!”
She lunged for him. She needed to push the circle of rope back down his wrist and pull the knot tight around it.
But he was ready for her this time. As soon as she got close enough, he swung out his elbow, trying to catch her in the face. Loosening his hand had given him the extra movement he needed, where before his arm had been stretched too straight to give him room.
They were both suffering—both impaired by the injuries they had given each other. Reactions had slowed, and she hadn’t anticipated the movement. But she was shorter than him, and even while standing on her tiptoes, grappling to reach the rope, his elbow was still higher than her face. It skimmed the top of her head, but his bicep delivered where his elbow had failed, shoving her backwards.
She staggered back, barely managing to stay on her feet. The floor was covered in her blood, and though the blood loss seemed to have slowed for the moment, it made the polished concrete slippery. Her feet went out from under her, and she slammed back down on her hands and knees.
Lifting her head back up, ignoring the pain, she watched in horror as he gave a final muffled roar of determination and yanked his hand through the rest of the rope bonds.
His hand was free.