Page 49 of The Vipers' Vow

I have to do this for her.

I clench my teeth and adjust my grip on the cleaver so now the blunt handle faces down. I wish I’d paid more attention in my biology class so I knew exactly where I should break the bone for the best impact. I assume it needs to be at the joint closest to my wrist. It’s where my hand is the widest. Fuck. I am not looking forward to doing this.

To muffle my scream, I bundle the bottom of my t-shirt and pull it up to stuff in my mouth. I don’t know if I’ll be louder than the clank of the cleaver on the chain, but it makes sense to take precautions. I also think I’ll feel better if I can bite down on something other than my tongue.

With my breath trapped in my lungs, I raise the cleaver handle. I want to close my eyes, but I need to make sure I’ll bring the handle down on the right place.

In my head, I count,one…two…three…

I bring the handle down, slamming the metal onto my thumb joint. For a moment, I’m sure I disassociate. I pull back inside myself, my head swimming, unwilling to process how the sickening crunch was my bone shattering.

Then the pain hits, and I’m back in the room. It’s white hot, blinding, barreling through my hand and up my arm and smacking me in the chest. I can barely breathe, and my heart hammers. I’m drenched in sweat, quickly followed by a dousing of cold. The room seems to shrink again, darkness creeping in at the edges, but I can’t give in to it. If I pass out, breaking my hand will be for nothing. Apo or one of Jarl’s other goons will come down here and find me unconscious with a smashed thumb and a cleaver on the floor next to me, and they’ll laugh their fucking heads off. I refuse to give them that pleasure.

Taking deep breaths, I count myself through the pain. It doesn’t abate—far from it—but I feel like I have more control now. My eyes are misted with tears, but I’m not fucking crying.

Finally, I force myself to look back down at my hand. The thumb is at a strange angle, and already bright red bruising marks the skin where the handle made impact. I can’t sit around and wait, and not only because I don’t want Apo and his men finding me like this. Pretty soon, the swelling is going to begin, and when it does, I’ll lose all ability to slide the cuff off. If anything, it’ll make escape even harder.

I must act fast.

Readjusting my t-shirt in my mouth, I brace myself to pull my hand out of the cuff. Every muscle in my body is tense with anticipation, and I’m already woozy with the pain. I clamp my teeth down on the material of my t-shirt, flex my bicep, and pull.

The pain is like I’ve hit my thumb with the handle all over again. The metal cuff jams on the broken part of my hand and digs in. I swear my eyes roll in my head from the agony and sweat breaks out across my entire body. I must keep going. The sweat on my skin helps to ease the way a little. The metal slips, just a touch, but it’s enough encouragement. I keep working it, pulling harder. I brace my feet against the stainless steel cabinet doors and use the entire weight of my body to pull my hand out of the cuff. I try to think of the pain as a different kind of sensation—a color, maybe—and tell myself I can handle it. It’s nothing. It will pass. The pain itself will not kill me.

It happens all at once. One minute, the cuff is jammed around my broken bones, and the next I’m flying backward. I hit the kitchen floor on my back and lie there, stunned. I lift my broken hand so it’s above my face and make sure I’m definitely free of the handcuff.

I am.

I’d whoop with joy if I wasn’t in a world of pain. I clutch my hand against my chest, trying to offer it some support, and take a moment to catch my breath. I’m shaking all over from the adrenaline, but at least I’m free.

The music is even louder now, and I wonder if they are getting drunk. It would be a stupid thing to do, but I’ve been around enough crime groups to know many of them are run by, and full of, total idiots. Saint and I have a ruthless and intelligent father who leads his organization with an iron fist, but we saw many rival groups with terrible morale, and no rules to speak of.

I think back to my plan.

There have to be lots of great places to hide on a yacht, too. I'm not sure if this belongs to Jarl or if he's leased it. If he's leased it, he's not going to know every nook and cranny. It could take them ages to find me. I don't even know if they'll be down here again for a while, anyway, because they sound like they're having a party up there and it's only just getting into motion.

With a deep breath, I push myself to standing, stretching out my aching muscles, then bend down and grab the cleaver with my good hand. I put it back under my t-shirt, lodged into my jeans at the back.

I swallow against my parched throat and head to the refrigerator. Throwing open the door, I grab a bottle of Fiji water, jam it into my armpit, and crack open the cap. I down half the bottle, immediately feeling better as the cold water wets my tongue and soothes my throat. I pour the remaining half over my face and hair, washing away the dog food residue and the last of the stinky water. Then I find a hand towel and use the ice dispenser to wrap the towel filled with ice around my rapidly swelling hand.

Anger bubbles up inside me. How dare those fuckers reduce me to this? I’m looking forward to making them pay.

More refreshed and with a clearer mind, I make my way to the door, and when I reach it, I pause, listening with my ear against the metal to work out what is going on outside as best I can. There is still that pounding bass from above, but I can’t hear any footsteps or conversation from the other side of the door.

Will they come looking for me sooner rather than later? By doing this, am I inviting my own death once I’m found? I have no way of knowing what the answers are. And if I don't take this risk, it's all over anyway. God, what a shitty situation to be in.

I crack the door open and peer out.

Outside is a long corridor with a cream carpet, and either side of the carpet are tiny little lights, like the kind you get on airlines at night, but much smaller. They track down the hallway in a pretty way. For some reason, I think of Saint and smile. He’d love these lights, the fancy asshole. The walls are spotless, and everything looks expensive. This is a boat for the wealthy, and even the lower deck, where the staff, who are paid to cook and clean and generally run after these assholes, would be expected to stay, is well decked out.

I slip out the door, looking both ways as I make my way down the corridor. Not sure which direction to head, I turn left by sheer basic animal instinct. My gut says that's the way to go, so that's what I do.

I make my way down a door-lined corridor, my gaze darting all around as I move. I need somewhere to hide. With my injured hand curled into my body like I’m cradling a baby bird, I check the first couple of doors but find only empty bedrooms. They’re small but tidy—definitely not the kind I’d expect the wealthy elite to stay in. They also don’t provide anywhere to hide, and I’m sure Olsen and his men will check here first the moment they realize I’m gone.

Keeping going, I check the other doors. I find a laundry room, and there’s a drying room, too, for wetsuits and the like. They all offer potential hiding places, but something pushes me on.

The next room is a huge supply closet. It might give me somewhere to hide. It's not just a cupboard; this is an entire room. Even better, there are metal, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and some have space behind them, beautiful dark space where I could hide. There are large boxes scattered around, too, and I slip inside to explore further.

I open one of the boxes and stare down at what's inside in shock. There is bag after bag after bag of powder. Call me naïve, but I don't think this stuff is sugar.

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