OWN HER: A Dark Mafia Romance(104)

As my mind drifted toward that thought, and my keening softened in a dreamlike state of wishfulness, I saw my sister in my mind’s eye: angry, fierce, and vibrant. She yelled at me silently, berated my weakness, and challenged my capitulation.



She was right. I had to fight. I had to wake up. I had to get out of here. I had to get the girl out of here. I could not give in. Fielding could not win. I had to take him down, or die trying.



This—tied up like a fucking pig on a spit—was not the way I would go down. Fucking Tania. Thank the fucking gods for my fucking little sister, Tania. I had to fight, for Tania. For me, too. But primarily, I’d say my main motivation at that point was for Tania.



I gathered my spite for the sick bastard who had done this—this, to me. This, to the other girl with the beautiful voice. And worse, to my sister, who died at his hands, before she even got to experience real life.



So no, I was not going to give in. I was not going to die. I was going to nail that fucking bastard to the wall.



I began to move my fingers and arms and wrists and feet and ankles and legs, trying to open some millimeters of space in which to maneuver or jostle the rope ties. I did this not without new pains accompanying the movement; the ropes burned and scratched my skin, sometimes pinching where it caught against tiny hairs or where it was just too tight.



Still, I didn’t give up. I kept twisting and stretching, even though nothing seemed to move, I put all I could into my muscles, willing something to shift.



After many moments, I began to feel some space. I think perhaps my wet skin had dampened the rope when he had first bound me up, which could only have helped. Praise god for wet skin and drippy hair!



I was starting to feel actual space now, between my wrists and ankles. I could turn my hands around partway, could feel my fingers run along the lowest-positioned parts of the ropes.



The one on my left side was not positioned well for my purposes; the knot was laid at the top of my wrist, and I still didn’t have enough room in there to completely turn my arm over to grasp it or work at it with my fingers.



But the one on my right was perfect. The knot lay just inside the small hollow I had opened between my inside wrist and the drop below my anklebone. It was just enough space to maneuver my first few fingers and thumb into.



I praised all that was holy for my months of working in difficult stilettos with tiny buckles and knots; my fingers were strong and they knew what to do.



After several moments of pulling and tugging and twisting and shifting and huffing and squirming and breathing and believing, I felt the knot finally slip its grip, and I was able to pull the end free from its grasp on the other part of the rope. I was moments away from right arm and right leg freedom…



And suddenly I had it. I almost cried. I wasn’t sure what would make the best next move, but quickly realized that I could not very well help out my left side before releasing my torso from its belting to the table, so that had to come first.



I think the strap that bound me around the waist was an actual man’s leather belt. The buckle was located under the table, but conveniently for my purposes, it was just under the edge on my right side. When I discovered this, I almost laughed with relief. It took me several moments to get the strap out of the buckle—it was awkward, working it behind me and several inches below with the table edge in the way, but ultimately I managed it.



At this point I was able to sit up and shift myself into a better position in which I could maneuver the last major hurdle: untying my left wrist from ankle. It took the work of several moments, but finally I had free space, motion, arms, legs, body.



I was so flooded with adrenaline that it overpowered my awareness of the cold, of my shivers, aches, and pains—well, for the most part. I still ached and I needed to stretch; I felt pinpricks all over. But I could move again. I was no longer tied down and presented like a turkey on Thanksgiving.



I was still locked up behind a heavy hydraulic cage door in a cell in the basement from hell, but I had a fighting chance now.



And no way was I going to waste it.





Chapter Fourteen




Dom



Nothing happened on the way to the basement.



But as soon as the doors opened there, I had to take a deep breath. I’d never been to Versailles, but this hall of mirrors certainly earned the descriptive title just as much, though in a much shadier perspective. The carpeting was a deep red, like blood. The ceiling was black, and the doors were painted cream. It could have been used as part of the set in The Shining. There were mirrors everywhere along the walls where there weren’t doors, with dimly lighted sconces interspersed, so it was impossible to tell how long the hallway was, nor how many doors and lights there were. It looked like it went on and on forever. It was like being in the madhouse at a fucking freak show.