Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“You have to understand,” I say gently. “This is all a very high-stress situation. Of course my self-defense instincts kicked in. But I really am grateful to you for rescuing me from Mikhail. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being his bride.”
He relaxes a fraction and nods. Perfect.
“So, no more stabbing?” he asks.
“No more stabbing,” I promise, mentally crossing my fingers. “What’s for breakfast?”
I remain pleasant for the rest of the day. I make myself as visible as possible, unpacking the suitcase with the door open so the camera will see me. I make small talk with the guards and with Viktor when he’s around. All the while, I’m watching and waiting for my opportunity.
I pay attention to the guard shifts. Two men rotate outside the front door every four hours. In the afternoon, there’s one guard who smokes and often steps away from the door to get in a cigarette break. He’s clearly the weak link. I mentally catalog the shift, and watch to see if he comes back any other time during the day. He doesn’t, but at least I have a window for the following day.
I eat lunch and dinner with Viktor. We make the smallest of small talk. He probably at least suspects that this is all for show, but he doesn’t push me. He gives me space. He lets me explore the house more. He has more things brought in, like books and puzzles. All the while, he’s giving me a hint of how long he plans to stay. Indefinitely, it seems.
He slips away every so often to make phone calls that he doesn’t want me listening to. That’s okay. I don’t need any intel about his movements, I just need to see if there’s a pattern to any of his communications. For instance, I notice that someone named Sergei calls about every ninety minutes. When he does, Viktor excuses himself.
By the following morning, I have a pretty solid plan. I’ll wait for the afternoon guards to take their shift. I have to time it with Viktor disappearing to take a call from Sergei. As soon as he’s gone, I have my chance to slip out of the front door.
At four p.m., the moment hits. Sergei calls and Viktor leaves the sitting room where I’ve been lounging in an overstuffed chair reading a book for the last hour. His phone vibrates and he excuses himself. I look toward the front door and see that there’s only one shadow in the window. I have approximately ten seconds before Viktor shuts himself in the control room.
I make a run for it. Viktor’s far enough away that he won’t be able to catch me from this angle. I wrench open the front door and slam the guard from behind, causing him to stumble long enough for me to make a break for it.
I run as fast as I possibly can. I don’t hesitate or look back. I run down the street at top speed, feeling the cool air slap against my face. It’s the first fresh air I’ve felt in two days. The feeling is almost euphoric.
I’m almost to the end of the street when I see his blockade. Shit. Just as I’m wondering how I’m going to get around them, a hand reaches for me from behind, and then I’m tackled to the ground. I turn over quickly to face my attacker, only to look up into Viktor’s eyes.
He doesn’t look angry as he stares down at me. He almost looks amused. We’re both breathing hard and I can feel scrapes from where he pushed me to the ground. I disregard it all as I try to push him off of me, but he doesn’t budge. He remains until I stop struggling against him.
Suddenly, he’s standing up and yanking me with him. I try to struggle out of his grasp again, but it’s useless. He keeps one hand firmly planted on my waist and the other at my elbow, holding on so tightly that it’s impossible for me to get even a few inches out of his grasp.
He marches me slowly back to the house, and I can really feel the effects of the tackle now. My ankle hurts with every step, and I’m sure that I’ll find it swollen when I get back into the house. My knees and right elbow both sting from scrapes, and my shoulder is sore from him yanking me back. Worst of all, though, is my pride. Maybe it was a longshot, but I really thought I could get away from him. Stupid.
When we get back into the house, he doesn’t yell or try to punish me. Instead, he just locks the door and smiles at me.
“You can always try again tomorrow,” he says pleasantly, and I realize this is all just part of that psychological warfare I’ve heard so much about.