Something I’d never had much of.
What did I have?
I looked around the room. Nothing. Just me in a not-so-rickety chair. And I was too damn weak to rip the arms off.
With a deep breath, I looked around again. Desperate.
If I was still here when Roman came back in, it would be worse. So much worse.
I yanked at one of the arms again. It wiggled—but held fast.
That gave me an idea.
I might not be able to rip the arm off. But maybe I could knock the whole thing over.
It was stupid. But when a girl ran out of smart options, she used whatever she had left.
I wrapped my fingers around the wooden armrests and shifted my weight from side to side.
The chair rocked. Groaned.
I threw my body into it, over and over.
Each time it landed back on all four legs, I cursed and started again.
It took more effort than I thought it would.
The manacles chafed. Sweat covered me. My lungs burned. My throat screamed.
But I kept going.
Finally, the chair tilted far enough. My stomach lurched.
I twisted to control the fall—but I was too late.
The chair slammed into the desk. My shoulder hit first. Something on the desk tumbled to the floor as I went down with it.
The bang echoed through the room.
White-hot pain exploded through my shoulder, sending shockwaves down my back and into my ribs.
I winced. That was going to bruise—badly. Maybe worse.
There was a real chance I might’ve cracked something. Maybe even started to bleed inside.
If I was seriously injured, it would take me out faster than whatever Roman had in mind.
All that work—and still neither of the damn arms broke.
Now I was chained to a chair on my side. Possibly injured. With even less mobility than before.
Fuck my life.
Then—miracle of miracles—the door opened.
A guard rushed in, gun drawn.
“What the hell is happening?” he shouted, sweeping the room with his weapon. Then he saw me.
