Page 18 of Stiletto's Savior

Footsteps echo above me—heavy, menacing.

My breath quickens.

I press my back against the wall, heart hammering like a freight train.

“Please, someone help me,” I murmur, though I know no one can hear. Not down here.

A door creaks open, then slams shut.

My pulse races faster as I prepare for whatever’s coming next.

I brace myself, fighting the urge to curl up and disappear.

I try to move my wrists, and pain shoots up my arms like fire. “Goddamn it,” I hiss, biting my lip to stifle a whimper. The rawness—the burn—it’s excruciating.

“Focus, Stiletto,” I say, forcing myself to breathe.

Each inhale feels like a victory.

But the chains dig deeper with every small movement, reminding me I’m trapped—bound.

I lean against the wall, breathing through the pain.

The chains are cold, unyielding.

All I know is that I have to find a way to get out of here.

Just as I’m mulling over ideas of escape, my stomach growls—an ugly reminder of my situation.

Three days, maybe more, with nothing but stale air and darkness.

“Get it together, Stiletto,” I whisper, my voice raspy, like gravel scraping against glass.

Each word feels like a fight.

I can’t let panic claw its way up my throat.

I’ve survived being without food so many times throughout my life, especially back home in the Bronx.

I can get through this. I know I can.

The chains rattle as I shift once more.

God, they hurt.

I flex my fingers, trying to find some sensation in them.

The rawness stings, blurring the edges of my mind.

Focus. Just breathe. It’s taking everything in me to remain calm, to not let my current predicament break me down.

Time stretches here, each moment feeling like an eternity.

Is it day? Night? I can’t tell anymore.

“Keep moving,” I tell myself, even though every flicker of movement sends jolts of pain through my wrists.

They’re on fire.

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