Trigger Warning: This chapter contains depictions of abduction, forced confinement and psychological distress.

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Blake Hart

When the car finally rolled to a stop, I braced myself. 

I heard the shuffling of feet, three strangers stepping out of the vehicle. My pulse hammered in my ears as the back doors creaked open and a blast of cold air rushed in, hitting my skin like ice water. Rough hands gripped my ankles and pulled me toward the edge of the car. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath in case they decided to rip the cloth from my face.

“Let’s see who we’ve got here.”

I felt the fabric being tugged loose. The harsh daylight pressed against my closed lids but I didn’t dare move.

“She’s a pretty one.” A hand brushed against my cheek.

I fought the instinct to flinch.

“Take her to the back. Let me know when she wakes up,” another voice ordered, calm, authoritative. He sounded like the one in charge.

As his footsteps faded, I cautiously opened my eyes to a squint. Three men lingered near the car. But more were scattered around, five maybe six others. All unfamiliar. All watching. No chance I could run. Not without being tackled. Or shot.

Screaming? That would probably just earn me a fist to the face or worse.

Play dead, I told myself. Wait. Watch. Think.

This was the best way to come up with another plan until they forced me to something. Right?

When one of them hoisted me into his arms and started carrying me, I let my body go limp, sneaking a glance through half-lidded eyes. The car was surrounded by dense forest, the ground thick with pine needles and dead leaves. The house they were taking me to looked ancient, abandoned maybe. No buildings in sight past the tree line. I couldn’t even had an idea to which way to run.

No one nearby. Just them. And me.

Breathe, Blake. You’re alive. You can figure this out.

You’ll get an answer. You’ll find a way out.

Inside, the air changed. Damp, musty wood mixed with the faint scent of smoke. Definitely an old place, unused for a while.

He carried me up creaking stairs and into a small back room. I felt it in the air, the wind slipping through a window behind me, brushing across my shoulders. He set me down onto a hard wooden chair.

I slumped sideways, letting my body lean like dead weight. From this angle, I could barely peek down the hall through the open door. Stairs at the end and a corridor with closed doors on either side. We were on the second floor. 

As the man began to tie my wrists behind the chair, I tried to memorize the layout. Then, his hands slowed. One trailed up my arm, over my shoulder.

My chest tightened.

No no no.

He stepped around and I shut my eyes just before he passed in front of me again. I couldn’t see him but I could feel him.

His stare.

His fingers adjusted my posture, straightening my body against the chair and then slid down. Across my chest. Breasts. My stomach.

Disgust surged through me like acid.

I sat frozen, swallowing the scream clawing up my throat. His breathing was shallow, uneven. I could smell the sourness of sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to him. Then, mercifully, he walked away. A few steps. The door clicked shut behind him.

Only then did I reopen my eyes. My body trembled uncontrollably. Sweat dripped down my temples despite the chill. I wanted to cry. 

I wanted to scream. 

I wanted to punch a hole through every wall in this goddamn house.

But I couldn’t fall apart. Not now, not in front of them.

I turned to the window. The glass was grimy but not opaque, clear enough to see no sign of civilization. No roads. No rooftops. Just endless trees.

You can figure out where to go once you escape this room, I reminded myself.

I twisted my wrists, feeling the cold bite of metal. Not rope, cuffs.

Great. Just fucking great!

Still, I kept moving, up and down, testing the edge of the pain. Maybe, just maybe, I could slip free. I didn’t care if I bruised or bled, if pain was the price of freedom, so be it.

Focus on the room. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just look.

Cracked ceiling. 

Up. Down. 

Faded yellow wallpaper, peeling in the corners. 

Up. 

No furniture, no bed, not even a table, just this chair. 

Down. 

One locked door and the window.

The window… and the narrow French balcony beneath it. I stared at it, a spark of hope catching somewhere deep inside me.

What am I supposed to do now?

Whatever it takes.