Page 64 of The Devil's Pawn

I try the door, but it’s locked. Hang on a second. Panic room doors open from the inside. I scan for a button or a lever or something.

There it is.

I jab the button. The door stays stubbornly shut. Oh, God, am I stuck in here? The stirrings of panic grip me. What’s going on? I press my ear to the door. Has the alarm stopped sounding? I pound on the door.

“Hey! Is anyone there?”

Nothing but silence greets me. I pummel the door again, pressing the exit button over and over. It’s no use. I’m stuck. What if I can’t get out, and no one knows I’m here? I’ll die in this space.

Slowing my breathing, I ground myself in the present. It’s fine. It’ll be okay. I’m okay. I have my phone. Sliding it out of my pocket, I call up my contact list. As much as it pains me, I tap on Alexander’s name.

Nothing.

It doesn’t ring.

Groaning, I realize why. No signal.

I check out my surroundings, my heart leaping at the phone mounted on the wall. Thank God. I lift the handset off its cradle. My parents told me about these. I think they were called landlines. A ringing tone sounds in my ear. It must connect automatically, probably to the police. That’s what happens in the movies.

Except it’s not the police who answer.

“Hello, Imogen.”

“Alexander?” I frown. “What… what’s going on? I’m stuck in the panic room. The alarm went off.”

“I’m aware, and you’re not stuck.”

“I am. The door won’t open. I’ve tried the button thing, and it’s not doing anything.”

“That’s because it’s locked from the outside, and when you’ve had some alone time to think about your actions, I’ll open it. Until then, I suggest you take a seat. There’s water in the fridge, and a protein bar if you get hungry.”

Fury, sudden and hot, races through me. My fingertips tingle, my vision narrowing as everything around me blurs. All I see is red—a fiery all-consuming rage that blots out everything else.

“You… youlocked me in here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you why. You didn’t think I wouldn’t retaliate for the eyebrow incident, did you? This is me, showing you that your actions areunacceptable. This isn’t kindergarten. You are my wife. You are disobedient, disrespectful, you have embarrassed me time and again, and now you’re being punished. Next time you think about pulling a stunt like you did last night, remember what the consequences are.”

My muscles tense, coiled like springs ready to snap. “Open this fucking door. Right now.”

“No.”

“Open this door, or a missing eyebrow will be the least of your problems.”

“And if you don’t stop being a brat, a day locked in the panic room will be the least of yours.” He hangs up on me.

I grip the phone, then smash it against the wall. “You fuckingbastard.”

I pace around the cell, for that’s what it is, my breath coming in gasps, my thoughts incoherent. My jaw aches fromgrinding my teeth. A scream builds in my throat, and I let it go, screaming until I’m hoarse, but no one comes.

Ever since I set foot in this house, I’ve been cut off from everything and everyone I know, and I thought that was as bad as it could get. How wrong I was. Alexander hasn’t just dialed his retaliation up to eleven; he’s sent it skyrocketing off the fucking charts.

My energy wanes, and I fall in a heap on the bench that runs along one wall of the panic room. I’m stuck here, locked in this small space until Alexander decides to let me out, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

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