Page 160 of Snared Rider

I hit resistance.

I push again, but it only opens a crack. This unleashes a blast of fresh air that hits me in the face, mingling with the stale, cold air in the corridor. I suck it back in massive gulps, relishing the influx of oxygen.

Then I shove the door again.

It doesn’t open further.

What the hell?

I shove my shoulder against the door savagely this time, rattling my bones and sending waves of pain through my chest.

Nothing.

It’s then I see the chain looped around the handle, keeping the door shut. If I survive this I will find out which pencil-pushing idiot locked the building up like Fort-bloody-Knox and punch him or her in the face.

“Bitch!” Wilson's voice echoes from within the bowels of the building behind me, and my thoughts scatter.

Fuck.

I shove against the door again, my shoulder protesting painfully. I don’t give it a single thought because pain is nothing compared to death. I can deal with my injuries later—if there is a later.

“Beth!” His voice is closer, and I twist, seeing him climbing over the debris blocking the corridor. He does this with a lot more grace than I did, even with the blood wending down his face.

Like something out of a horror move, he starts towards me. He doesn’t move fast—there’s no need; I’m locked in the building with no way out and nowhere to go. Nowhere but that tiny gap between the door and outside.

Wilson laughs, his voice is pitched high, the sound maniacal. It’s creepy as fuck.

“Where are you going, little girl?” he caws. “There’s nowhere to fucking run.”

Yeah, we’ll see.

I push the door as wide as I can with my foot and knee. I’m shaking so much it’s hard to control my movements, but my mind is completely focused on one single thought: escape.

And I will escape.

The gap is a foot at most wide. I’m not a big girl, but I’m not exactly small either. And I’ve also overindulged this week. Between meals out with Dad and lunch dates with Mackenzie (plus, downing so much Gin I could have opened a distillery), I’m sure I’ve added half a stone to my weight since I’ve been in Kingsley.

Why the fuck did I eat so much junk?

I push into the crack, ignoring the pressure on my shoulders and chest as I’m sandwiched between the frame and the door itself. It’s a no-go. I’m too big. The gap is too small.

But Wilson is coming on my heels, and fear is a powerful motivator.

Screaming my frustration, I force my shoulders to keep moving forward. I hit resistance, so I twist my torso. My ribs shift and intense agony fires through my side as I move forward an inch.

Even as I wiggle and twist, I hear Wilson laughing at my attempts. The sound of his footfalls comes closer. I block it out. I block everything out, everything other than the fact I’m a shaking, trembling sweaty mess.

I push harder and twist further until I feel something in my shoulder give way. The joint pops. Pain like I’ve never felt (even when I broke my ribs) fires out from all my synapses around the area as the blockage lifts and I fall through the gap in the door.

I hit the mud on my hands and knees. My right arm fails to hold my weight. I go face-first into the dirt and there I lie for a moment, stunned, my vision wobbling as my entire right shoulder flares angrily.

Then something grabs my ankle. I shriek, and kick out frantically. This has the desired effect, freeing my foot from the bruising grasp.

Wilson’s hand gropes through the gap in the door, trying to grab me again, but he’s larger than I am and he’s far too bulky to get through.

He stares at me and his lips curl into a sneer, his eyes flashing rage. And then, in the single most terrifying moment of my life, he growls, “I’m coming for you,” and disappears back inside.

Holy fucking shit.

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