Chapter 5 Breakout

• NADIA
• It was too quiet. Too quiet for someone locked in a panic room in a psycho’s basement. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might rip itself free.
• My wrists burned where the leather belt had bitten into my skin. I’d kept twisting and pulling, trying to slip free. I couldn’t just sit there, waiting for him to come back and do whatever he had planned. Finally, with one last yank, the belt loosened and dropped to the rug with a soft thud. My wrists throbbed and stung, but I didn’t care. I had to get out.
• The moment I heard someone coming, I got to my feet and looked around.
• The room was bare, plain walls, a narrow bed, and a small table. Nothing useful, except one of the bedside lamps. It wasn’t heavy, but its base looked solid enough to crack a skull. I grabbed it and felt its weight in my hand. This was my only shot.
• I crept over to the door and pressed my back against the wall beside it. My chest rose and fell fast. I had no idea if I could actually knock him out, but sitting there and doing nothing was the same as giving up. I wasn’t about to give up. Not now.
• Not ever.
• A faint beeping came from the other side, his phone, probably. My grip tightened on the lamp. I held my breath. The door clicked open. My heart leaped, and I swung the lamp with everything I had.
• But he was faster. He caught my wrists mid-swing, pressing me backward until the lamp clattered to the floor. I gasped as pain shot up my arms. He shoved me onto the bed so hard my back slammed against the wooden frame. Air whooshed out of my lungs.
• He stood over me, arms folded, as if watching a show. His dark eyes bored into mine. “What are you doing?” His voice was low, bored.
• I spat out a breath and twisted, trying to break free. He tightened his grip and yanked my arm behind me until I screamed. “I’m not just going to sit here and wait,” I ground out. “I’m not giving up.”
• He chuckled, a cold, humourless sound that made my blood run cold. “Cute,” he said, stepping back. “But you should know when to quit.”
• I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
• “Why did you do this?” I demanded, voice trembling but fierce. “Why did you kill my family?”
• His expression flickered, just for a second. Then he leaned in, fingers tangling in my hair to force me upright.
• A tear slipped down my cheek.
• “Oh, don’t act innocent,” he hissed. “You know your parents. You know what they really did.”
• “They were good people,” I shot back, even as my voice cracked. “They didn’t deserve this. Andrei didn’t deserve this.”
• He laughed, like he’d just heard the best joke in the world. “Good people? Please. Your family swam in money that was soaked in other people’s suffering. Every bit of comfort you enjoyed came at someone else’s expense.”
• I shook my head, sweat and tears mixing on my face. “You’re lying,” I spat. “They weren’t anything like you.”
• His smile turned cold. “You’re right. They weren’t me. I’m far more ruthless.” He let go of my hair and I stumbled backward, clutching my head. Then he slid in close, too close, his gaze roaming over me.
• I realized what was coming.
• Rage and panic flared inside me, and I did the only thing I could, I bit him.
• I sank my teeth into his lip and tasted a warm liquid. His blood.
• He hissed, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he licked the blood from his mouth, smiling.
• That’s when I knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d broken me completely.
• He shoved me onto the bed and got on top of me. His weight pinned me down like a brick wall. I kicked, fought, screamed, my fist pounding his chest, but it did nothing. He pressed his hand over my mouth and held me down, all his strength focused on me.
• “Stop,” he whispered against my ear. His breath was hot, reeking of cigarette smoke. “You’re mine now.”
• “No!” I screamed into his hand, tears blurring my vision. “Please, anything but that. I can’t… I don’t want it.”
• He ignored me. Fingers digging into my arms, he ripped my gown up to expose my underwear. My chest heaved with sobs. I clenched my legs, pulling them together, begging him with my eyes.
• But he just laughed, low and empty. “You’ll learn your place,” he said, voice full of dread.
• Then he forced himself on me. I cried out, struggling, but he was too strong. Every movement only hurt me more.
• When he was done, he stood and pulled his clothes back into place without a glance. Then he left, the door thudding shut behind him.
• I lay there on the bed, chest heaving, every part of me shaking. My skin felt bruised, violated. The silence that followed was worse than anything he’d done.
• After a few minutes, I pushed myself up and stumbled off the bed. I could barely feel my legs under me. I made my way to the small bathroom at the end of the room and crawled into the shower.
• I turned the tap all the way to hot. Steam filled the tiny space, and tears mixed with the water running down my face. I scrubbed my skin with my fingers, trying to wash away the feeling of his grip, the burn of his touch. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t erase the memory.
• In the mirror’s fog, I saw my own eyes, red, tired, burning with something new. It wasn’t just fear or grief anymore. It was pure, white-hot rage.
• He thought he could break me. He thought he could own me like a toy, use me until I had nothing left. But he was wrong.
• I turned off the tap and stood under the cool spray, letting it wash away the steam. I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, in, out, in, out.
• I’d survived worse that night. I’d survived the basement, the panic room, his twisted games. And I’d make sure he regretted every second of it.
• There was a towel in there, so I wrapped it around myself and left the bathroom.
• It was almost as though he was expecting me.
• My wrists still stung, but I flexed my fingers. They moved. I could still fight.
• Back in the panic room, the door was still locked. I’d have to find a way out, no belt, no lamp, no room full of tools. Just me and my anger.
• I knelt by the door and pressed my ear against it. No sound from the hallway. He’d gone. Good. More time to plan.
• I reached down and scraped a long fingernail against the metal frame. It made a faint scrape. But it was a start.
• I didn’t know when or how I’d break free. Maybe I’d pick the lock with a shard of glass from the lamp, or maybe I’d find some hidden latch. All I knew was I wouldn’t give up. I wouldn’t let him keep me locked away.
• Because someday, when I was free, I’d make him feel exactly what I felt right now.
• And then I’d make him pay.