Page 143 of Taste of Addiction

“What are we going to do? Can you call for help?”

“I did when we were above ground, but it’s tricky. If I call in the infantry, we could all die. I’m sorry you are involved. There’s no cell reception down here. We have these watches to communicate.”

“Who the hell is The Prophet? Do you have any clue?”

Paul growls. “No. But he’s been calling all the shots and will be here soon.”

“Well, what’s the plan now? I’m not just going to sit back and wait to die.” I have too much to live for.

“We need a diversion. I need to get Bryce and Owen back so I can lock them in here,” he explains. “Once they are restrained and we are less outnumbered, I can get you back up to safety.”

“Untie me.”

“They will know I’m not on their side.”

“Untie me. I have a plan.” When Paul has my arms and legs undone, I wiggle life back into them. “Give me your knife.”

“Angie…”

“Trust me.”

With hesitation, he hands over the blade he used to undo my straps, and I pull down my leggings revealing my scars of my past that are barely visible anymore. Maybe my outlook on life has changed so much that they are no longer at the front of my mind.

I take the knife and—

“What the fuck, Angie, no!”

Blood bursts from my skin. I slice the same area where I almost killed myself by accident the last time. I slide my pants back into place, shocked that I could even go through with it after my warped view on pain.

“Go tell them something is wrong with me,” I insist. “I’ll keep my hands behind the chair so they don’t notice.”

He glances back at me as he opens the door. “Guys! Get in here. Something’s wrong with her.”

Bryce and Owen rush into the room, slamming the heavy door shut as they survey the scene. I am losing a lot of blood. My light pink leggings absorb as much as they can, forever staining the fabric.

“Uh man, is she on her fucking rag?” Bryce asks, glancing down at my bloody crotch and thigh.

“Think so,” Paul says, looking like he’s disgusted. “I can’t be in here, I hate the smell of blood.”

“You’re such a pansy,” Owen teases.

“Going to have to suck it up, sweets. Should have come prepared,” Bryce says, turning to leave.

Paul waits until Bryce’s view of us is blocked and leaps at him, knocking him down with the handle of his gun. I jump up from my chair and shove Owen. He stumbles forward but doesn’t lose his balance. Instead, he whirls around and charges at me. His hands grip my throat and squeeze. I stare up at his eyes, dark and glassy—like he isn’t even here. Like he is someplace else. He chokes me, fingers pressing into the bones of my neck. I kick. I push. Nothing. Just when I think he’s going to let loose, he just presses tighter. My eyes droop. I see darkness swallow me up, as I start to lose consciousness.

And then the band around me snaps. I gasp for air. Panting. Doubling over. I suck in as much as I can.

My fingers move up to massage the bruises at my neck. I look to find Paul striking Owen with his fist. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a handful of zip ties, and binds the men together on the floor. He then secures them to a hook on the wall, completely immobilizing them.

Paul grabs my hand and pulls me from the room, locking the door with a metal latch. Slicing off a piece of material from the bottom of his pants, he ties a tourniquet around my upper thigh, adding pressure to my self-inflicted wound.

Damn, it hurts.

“You are brave,” he says, looking me directly in the eyes. “Keep your head clear. We’re going to get out of this alive.”

We travel through an underground maze. “Do you know how to get out of here?” I ask him, barely able to catch my breath.

“Yes.”

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