Page 114 of Golden Burn

A grunt. A scream.

Silence.

I wait with bated breath, the skin around my wrists burning as I begin to fidget. Someone is in the hallway, opening the doors, checking the other rooms. When they get to the one I’m locked inside, they speak.

“Etta?” he says. I whimper, my chest exploding.

Odin.

I yelp, my voice trapped behind the tape.

The door swings open. The end of a gun appears first, then a hand, then an arm, then the body of the man I love.

He finds me, his eye wide with relief, then worry, then anger.

Behind him I see movement, the body of another man I despise.

I scream at Odin. Scream his name as loud as I can because he’s so focused on me he’s not concentrating.

Cerbera appears behind Odin and lifts his gun, ready to strike.

“Predictable,” he says and clocks my husband on the back of the head.

Odin stumbles forward, clearly stunned. But he doesn’t go down. He turns his lethal body, his entire being thrumming with fury.

Cerbera fires his gun and strikes Odin in the chest.

I squeal.

No.

Odin recoils, but no immediate blood seeps through his clothes. I notice the bulkiness of his upper body and realize he’s wearing a vest.

Odin wastes no time and throws his gun at Cerbera’s face. Surprised, the man rears back, trying to dodge it. Odin uses the distraction to his advantage and launches for the attack. He throws punch, after kick, afterpunch. They disappear into the hallway beyond the room, out of my sight.

Another gunshot goes off. I hear someone grunt.

No, no, no.

I start jerking, twisting on the bed. My chafed wrists start bleeding as I pull and pull, trying to break myself free.

Martin appears in the doorway, his brown eyes intense. “We have to go,” he says, and he cuts my binds for the second time and helps me off the bed.

“Odin!” I scream, though my words are muffled. “Help him!”

When my hands are free, I rip the tape off my mouth, the sting barely registering. He grabs my upper arm and hauls me toward the door. The sound of men fighting hand-to-hand reverberates, shaking my bones.

In my periphery, I see the octopus at the bottom of the tank. I jerk back toward it. “The octopus,” I say.

“We don’t have time,” he growls, pulling me harder. He doesn’t understand. I launch my body toward it, yanking Martin with me.

I have to shove the tank lid to the side, shrugging off Martin’s hold on me. The water bubbles and ripples, ruining my clear sightline of the octopus. “What are you doing?” He hisses in my ear.

“Bringing a weapon,” I pant.

Before I pick up a highly venomous creature, I go to the bed and rip off the bedsheet. I try to separate a section with my bare hands. When that proves pointless, I hold it up to Martin to cut with his knife. He wants to object; I know he does. He must think I’m insane. But he obeys my silent command and slices a piece off.

Taking a deep breath, I stick my fingers in the water, using the sheet as a shield and a net.

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