Page 162 of Whispers and Wildfire
The tears that filled my eyes weren’t an act. They were real—tears of desperation. I had no idea if another tantrum would get him to untie me or if he’d decide he was tired of my antics and just drug me again. But I had to risk it.
“Fine, just leave me here,” I sobbed. “You might as well let me die.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
I rolled away, curling into a ball. “I stayed quiet when you answered the door. I didn’t even try to make noise. And you don’t trust me enough to let me walk on my own. Just go.”
“We don’t have time for this. We have to get out.”
Making no move to reply, I kept crying. He let out a frustrated growl, and I was sure I’d feel the prick of a needle. I’d gone too far.
But I hadn’t. He moved around me, grabbed my arms, and sliced through the tape. Then he did the same to my ankles.
As much as I wanted to throttle him in every way possible, I didn’t. I was lying down with no leverage. I’d only get one shot. I had to time it just right.
So, I stayed in character. The damsel in distress didn’t get up. She wiped her eyes and smiled gratefully at her captor as if he’d just given her everything she’d ever wanted.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He grabbed my hands and helped me to my feet.
Hesitating, he held my eyes and shifted his weight slightly. I could read him like a book. He was waiting to see if I was going to kick him in the balls again.
As much as I wanted to, he was ready for it.
When I didn’t lash out at him, he smiled and grabbed my wrist. “Let’s go.”
I let him lead me up the stairs and through the door. It opened into a small kitchen with an olive-green refrigerator and range and only a scrap of counter space. A black wood stove, the kind with a cooktop, sat on the other side. The air was smokier upstairs, even indoors, and through the window there was nothing but white haze.
Without letting go of my wrist, he paused to grab a set of keys and stuffed them in his jeans pocket.
My eyes darted around, looking for something I could use to get away. Anything. The remnants of his sandwich making were still on the counter, but paper plates and a loaf of bread wouldn’t do me any good.
“Do you need to pack your things?” I asked, hoping he’d let go for even a minute.
“I already put what I need in the car. The rest can burn.”
Burn. The wood stove. Was there anything—
“Let’s go,” he said, tugging on my wrist.
I couldn’t let him put me in that car. I was dead if he did. Desperation and panic tightened my chest. Without really meaning to, I took a gasping breath, my control slipping. The breath turned into a cough, and Roswell’s eyes widened in alarm.
Running with it, I bent forward, pretending to have a coughing fit, as if the smoke was already too much. It wasn’t, but I put on a good show, and Roswell let go of my wrist.
Without hesitation, I lunged for the wood stove. There was a set of black tongs and a poker in a stand beside it. I grabbed the poker, spun around, and with as much strength as I could, I hit Roswell on the side of the head.
He crumpled to the ground, and on the edge of blind panic, I ran.
Still holding the fireplace poker, I flew out the door intothe smoke-filled air. As I passed the car, I wished I’d had the chance to get his keys. But they were in his pocket, and there was no way I was going back. Maybe I could get to the firefighters. I didn’t know where they were, but at least one had been there.
I could hardly think. All the terror of the past day rose up, dark and overwhelming. I didn’t know where I was going or what to do next. I just had to get away.
So I ran.
CHAPTER 41
Melanie
