She almost laughed, the hysterical snort of hopelessness. Tools? Why not wish for a whole toolbox? She lowered her hand and clenched her fingers. Blood seeped out from under her torn, dirty nail.
Wait. She looked down at the chain. The links were thick, metal, strong. She gathered up a length of it in her hands. The chain was short. In order to reach the top of the barrel, she had to put her attached foot on the cot. Then she inserted two links into the opposite sides of the clover leaf and tried to use them as levers, but the cap still wouldn’t budge. The links were too small.
What did she do when she couldn’t open a tightly sealed jar?
She began to strike the side of the cap with a link. She missed. Her fist struck the edge of the cap, and pain shot up her arm. She shook her hand and pressed her stinging knuckles to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes.
Don’t give up!
Desperation fueled a second attempt. The cap shifted slightly. She tried to open it. Not loose enough. Praying no one was close enough to hear, she struck it again and again, until she could turn it with her bare hands. She unscrewed it all the way, lifted it, and peered inside, holding the lantern over the opening.
Pea gravel.
She almost fell backward with disappointment. No wonder it was so heavy. What was the volume of a drum? Fifty-five gallons? How much did fifty-five gallons of stone weigh?
More than she would ever be able to move. She and Tim had done some landscaping when they’d bought the house. They’d moved river rock by the shovelful. They’d barely been able to get out of bed the next morning.
Could she tip the drum over and roll it to the door? She went around to the side near the wall. Bracing her back against the corrugated metal, she put both feet on the barrel and pushed.
Nothing.
On the other side of the door, chains rattled and metal scraped on metal. She jolted at the sound and scrambled to her feet, heart thudding in a dreadful beat. Her gaze went to the barrel. The cap was upside down on the lid of the barrel.
Praying he didn’t notice, she pressed her back to the wall. The door swung inward.
And he stepped inside.
A ski mask covered his face. He was average size. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a heavy sweatshirt that concealed the shape of his body.
He carried a pile of clothes and a greasy paper bag. The scent of hamburger made Chelsea’s stomach churn and growl. He walked closer and set the bag and clothes on the foot of the cot. He scanned her from head to toe. Then his head turned toward the barrel. His body stiffened.
“What were you trying to do?” He stalked closer. “Were you trying to escape?”
The first blow caught her on the side of the face and sent her spinning into the wall. Her head ricocheted off the corrugated metal. She crawled onto the cot and cringed, pain and fear congealing in her belly like cold grease.
She heard the chain rattle. She turned toward him, afraid to see what he was doing yet unable to hide her eyes.
“This will be your first lesson. It’s a shame you had to learn it the hard way.” He yanked hard on the chain. The manacle bit into the thin skin over her anklebone as he dragged her off the cot.
“No! Please.” She grabbed for the frame, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal bar for a few precious seconds before his strength was too much. Pain bloomed in her ankle as he pulled harder, and the lightweight cot slid across the floor.
“Come here.” The command was quiet, menacing. The icy control of his voice belied the fury in his movements. “You will not speak without my permission.”
Her fingers gave way. She landed on the floor on her hands and one knee, the chained leg pulled straight. He kicked out. The toe of his boot caught her in the thigh. Agony ripped through her leg. A fist crashed into the small of her back, the blow radiating white-hot through her spine.
Falling to her side, she curled into a ball as the blows rained down on her. Pain filled every inch of body. She covered her head with her arms and prayed.
He kicked her in the ribs, cutting off her next breath. “Rule number one: You belong to me. You will do what I say without question. You are my property.”
Chapter Seven
He could make her love him. He knew it with complete certainty.
Smoke rose in a cloud from the barrel of burning leaves. He waved it away and tossed her jeans onto the fire. At first, the bulk of the material smothered some of the flames, but in seconds, the denim began to burn slowly, starting at the edges and creeping inward. Smoke rose, smelling like burned paper.
Patience.
He added more dead leaves and waited for the flames to rise again. After the fire was reestablished, he set her sweater on top of the pile. Flames curled around the fabric, embracing, and then destroying it.