Even more disgusting was the prominent bulge in the front of his pants. Revulsion bubbled on the back of my tongue even as I thanked the powers that be for providing me with a way out. Fighting against the urge to gag, I swallowed the acid burning in my throat and continued to watch and wait.
Setting the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the workbench, Johnson dug through the crap littered across its surface, tossing objects aside at random. All the while I kept my eye on the screwdriver I had spotted earlier, watching it get shuffled about amongst the junk. For several minutes he sifted through the random tools and trash, occasionally snatching something up, studying it for a second or two before discarding it. Whatever he was searching for continued to elude him.
With a final grumble of “goddammit” he whirled around, reaching out for the edge of the workbench to steady himself.
“Oh well, little wolf, looks like we’re going to have get creative,” he said, advancing towards me in a drunken stumble.
Continuing to feign unconsciousness I tracked the toes of his shoes across the dirty floor until they came to a stop in front of me. I felt as much as heard the wicked snick of the knife coming free from the sheath he’d strapped to his belt, the air full of the sharp oily tang of silver. It took every ounce of self-control I had to remain still and maintain the charade when all I wanted to do was recoil from the blade and cry out for help.
A backhanded blow to my face erased my need to pretend unconsciousness. After the dancing motes of darkness disappeared from the edges of my vision I pinned Johnson with a glare. There was no need to fake the burning rage that welled up inside me as I spat blood and snarled, “Asshole.” I bared my teeth in a bloody grin when he recoiled from the red spray that splattered across the front of his shirt.
“You fucking bitch. You’re going to pay for that.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk,” I replied, with a yawn.
My yawn came to gasping halt as the wickedly sharp edge of the silver blade came into view, gleaming in the corner of my eye. The sight of it made my skin crawl with the need to get away, and for the first time I let Johnson see just how afraid I was as I thrashed in the chair, straining uselessly against the plastic ties holding me in place.
Foiled by zip ties, how embarrassing. Maybe they’ll put that on my tombstone: “Here lies Riley Cray. She would have survived if it weren’t for those damn zip ties.”
A piercing wail of agony exploded out of my throat as he pressed the flat of the blade to the bare flesh of my right wrist. My skin instantly began to welt and throb beneath the silver. While I knew that continued exposure would lead to blistering, burns and scarring, in that moment I couldn’t think of anything beyond the pain of the silver blade pressed to my skin.
The flood of relief that tore through me when he took the knife away was dizzying and left me drawing in ragged breaths. Looking down at my hand where it gripped the arm of the chair I saw several inches in either direction of my wrist covered in dark red streaks. It took longer than I care to admit before I realized that the zip tie had been cut. My relief was short lived as another shrill scream erupted from my raw throat, the pain of the silver against my skin shooting up my left arm.
The agony blazing through my body felt like it lasted hours, days, searing along every nerve. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I understood all too well the wolf’s visceral need to get away from silver.
An eternity later he pulled the blade away, and when I was finally able to will my muscles into cooperation I looked down to see that my left arm was similarly marked, and devoid of bindings. My arms were unbound, and yet I wasn’t sure that I possessed the strength to do anything with my newfound freedom.
My jeans prevented my legs from suffering the same fate as my arms, but my skin still crawled and twitched at the close proximity of the silver nonetheless as he cut the zip ties securing my ankles.
Free. I was free. Now was my chance to escape.
My muscles contracted, preparing to propel me into motion, but as I leapt up from the chair the hilt of the knife slammed into my temple. My vision blackened for a terrifying, heart pounding second as the blow knocked me back down into the chair with enough force to make the legs scrape across the floor.
“You’re not going anywhere, bitch,” he snarled, exhaling sour whiskey breath in my face. “We’re going to have some fun.”
Whatever he had in mind, I seriously doubted that it would be “fun.”
He grabbed my hair and pulled me up out of the chair, using his grip to propel me across the room. I would have spun and backhanded him across the face if it wasn’t for the persistent press of the knife’s tip against my side, pricking me through my shirt.
“I hope you rot in hell for this.”
“You first,” he growled in reply, shoving me against the edge of the workbench hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. Keeping the knife pressed against my side he let go of my hair.
“Unbutton your jeans.”