Page 2 of Guarded from Corruption

It took the next two days of watching and sorting through possibilities before I settled on this incredibly risky plan.

If I were watching a movie and the heroine was going to try this, I’d think she was slightly crazy. But for lack of a better option, here I am.

Terrified. Nauseous from nerves. Hands clammy. Sweating. My damp gown clinging to my body.

I’m sitting on the bed, hunched over, clutching my stomach and moaning softly, like I’m in pain.

My heart is pounding out of my chest. It’s hard to breathe past the choking fear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the door, waiting for the nurse to come in.

Thoughts ricochet madly as my adrenaline peaks.

It has to be the blonde one. The one with hair sort of like mine. If they switch shifts and I get the full-figured brunette, this isn’t going to work.

Remember where the camera is. Over in the corner. I need to get the nurse around to the other side, so we’re out of view.

Don’t forget the move. The one Shea’s brother taught us in college. The throat punch. Shea thought it was silly; she giggled at Niall’s serious expression the entire time. But I paid attention. And later that day, I practiced it on a pillow. Just in case.

With a tiny snick, the door to my room opens, and soft-soled shoes shuffle in.

Oh, please. Please work. I need to get out of here before?—

The nurse hurries over to my side, cursing softly under her breath. Once she gets to the bed, she leans in cautiously, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“My stomach,” I moan, rocking against the imaginary pain. “I’m having… it hurts…”

“Is it cramps?” she asks—the blonde one, thank goodness. “I can get you something for that.”

“No, it’s… oh, ow—” Rocking even harder, I groan just before toppling off the bed.

It hurts. Shoulder, elbow, hip all slamming into the cold linoleum. But it works.

Blonde nurse rushes around the bed and crouches next to me. Worry tinges her voice. “Oh, the bruises. They’re not going to like that. Just… wait here. I’ll find a doctor.”

“Please,” I beg, dragging myself back to a seated position. “Wait. Not a doctor.”

“I have to,” she starts. “You’re sick and hurt. They won’t like?—”

And then.

I punch her in the throat.

In a gasped wheeze, she clutches her neck and falls back against the side of the bed.

Then I leap on her, wrapping my arm around her neck and squeezing.

Still behind the bed, out of view of the camera, but for how long?

Part of me is shocked at myself. Hurting another human being after so many years trying to heal.

But the other part is coldly determined.

I don’t kill her; just keep her in a chokehold long enough for her to lose consciousness. Niall didn’t teach us that move, I figured it out on my own—it’s a matter of knowing where the carotid artery is and using the right amount of pressure.

It’s still a shock when it works. Enough of a shock that I just stare at her limp body for a few seconds before shakily touching her neck to check for a pulse.

Then it’s another few seconds after I feel the steady throb of her pulse before I remember my plan isn’t close to done.

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