Page 41 of Take Me

Mikhail leads me down several long halls before he stops at a metal door even heavier than the one to my cell. He presses his finger to the biometric scanner on the wall and shoves the door wide open.

My heart skips a beat as I see what’s on the other side. A long flight of concrete stairs leads right into the open. Tall trees and a starry night sky. Fresh air and the scent of pine trees and moss.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. The fresh air fills my senses with a surge of hope. I feel like I can almost touch it, the freedom. So close.

“You have one chance to get away,” Mikhail says, making me snap back to the present—the dry air and the dusty smell of basement. “If you manage, you’re free.”

I stare at him, through the door, and back up at him, suddenly struck by a wistful feeling.

Despite everything he has done, I’ve come to care for him. Or maybe grown attached because he’s the only thing I have to cling to down here—the only thing keeping me from drowning. Or breaking, as he’d say.

But am I not broken?

I’ve accepted his will and succumbed to his degradations. I’ve let him strip me of all dignity and reduce me to this pliant person I hardly recognize. He has driven me so far out I’m seeing things that aren’t even there.

Yet the thought of never feeling his arms around me again has my heart aching.

But just like his comfort, this wistfulness is false. It’s Stockholm syndrome. Survival.

So I squeeze my eyes shut and conjure images of the man who actually cared about me—whose touch was filled with genuine sympathy and affection.

If I have any chance at getting back to him—even with the very real possibility of him having forgotten about me—I need to grab onto it and fight with everything I have.

So I give a firm nod. “Okay.”

I have no idea where I am, where this forest leads, or if I’ll die trying. It doesn’t matter. This is my only chance.

“You have afifteen-minute head start.” Mikhail takes out a stopwatch and presses the top.

I stare at him for a moment. Is this it? No goodbye, no last words. I actually thought he cared about me—on some level. But the tender strokes across my forehead and the tight embraces when I cried were all just a means to an end. A method of quickly and effectively bending me to his will.

The realization is like a splash of cold water, ripping me out of the illusion with cruel force.

“Better make them count,” Mikhail says, and I shove down the urge to run into his arms for one final hug and set off up the stairs.

***

Adrenaline pulses through my veins, my legs pounding from the strain of my speed. I nearly trip over branches and stones several times, but somehow, I manage to keep upright, the wind whirring past my ears as I burst through the trees.

I don’t look back. Not once. If I do, I’ll only waver, and I can’t afford that.

So I run until my lungs burn, and then I run some more.

My nape prickles with awareness as if someone’s watching me, and once in a while, I think I hear twigs snag behind me and feel a presence lurking close by.

But I still don’t turn. I keep going. Not thinking, not wondering, just running. Deeper and deeper into the thick woods.

Only when I feel like I’m about to collapse from exertion does my rational brain kick in. Knowing I can’t keep going like this, I start scouting for places to hide. A tree I can climb, a gathering of large rocks, or a fallen trunk.

With the dense thicket of tree tops only allowing a sliver of the pale moonlight to seep through, I can’t see much, so I end up choosing a particularly thick tree as cover. It only hides me from anyone approaching from behind me, so if Mikhail has sent men searching for me from different directions, it won’t do me much good. But it’s better than trying to climb one of the impossibly tall trunks or trying to merge with the ground.

My breath wheezes in and out of my nose, filling the quiet night with too much sound. I try to breathe through my mouth instead, licking my lips as the air rushes past them, but it doesn’t do me much good. The sound is pervasive no matter how I breathe.

When I hear the dull thuds of stealthy footsteps behind me, I slam my hand over my mouth. I stop breathing entirely as my system goes into overdrive, beating with the urge to run. But I can’t break my cover.

Not until I feel it. A hand grabbing for my arm.

I shove off the tree, miraculously slipping out of his grip. My feet pound against the soil, but so does another set of much heavier steps. Right behind me.

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