Page 74 of Knot Beneath the Mistletoe

I grind my back teeth, never realizing I can hate someone as much as I do him.

“You’re even more fucking pathetic than I thought.”

“Such language...” He straightens his shoulders. “Here I am caring, even giving you advice because I don’t want to see you with nothing. You just need to learn your place, is all. Your Aunt Eve wasn’t that much smarter, you know, but saying nice things to people like her can make them think the world of you and add you to their will.”

His words stab through me. He played my aunt? She told me he was a decent man who was just lost and needed guidance in this world, but he lied to her the whole time.

My blood runs cold. “Don’t you dare talk about her. You’re not fit to speak her name, you piece of?—”

“Enjoy your time, Ruby,” he cuts me off, heading for the door. “Maybe some quiet time will help adjust that attitude of yours.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in this rundown room with light only from the window across the room.

Outside the door, voices murmur—Marcus and at least one other person.

I yank at the chains again, hissing as they cut deeper into my already raw wrists. Bet Marcus bought these at a garage sale. The room grows darker, and panic claws at my throat. I force it down.

No. No, you don’t get to fall apart now, Ruby. Think.

The old bed frame creaks as I flop down onto the mattress, scanning the room for anything useful. The decorative finial on the corner post catches my eye—it’s been loose since I got here, wobbling slightly every time I move.

I stretch an arm toward it until my shoulder screams in protest. My fingers brush the cold metal, but it’s not quite enough. “Seriously?”

I pull my knees under me, trying for better leverage. The mattress groans, and I freeze, not wanting to make too much noise and get Marcus’ attention.

This time I manage to grip the metal finial, my fingers curling around it. The thing’s cold and rough with rust, but it moves when I twist it.

Nothing happens.

Come on, you son of a bitch.I work it back and forth, ignoring the burning in my muscles.

A sound from outside the room makes me stop breathing. Footsteps? No, just the wind. The house groans around me like it’s in pain.

My arms are shaking now, but I keep working on the finial. I think about the bar and how Marcus is probably doing inventory right now on how he will tear it down and destroy all my memories with Aunt Eve.

I put everything into that bar this past year to make it succeed, and I don’t want to lose it. I feel at home there, like Eve is still around.

Pausing, I rest my wobbling arm, then try again. I won’t give up.

The finial comes free so suddenly, I almost smack myself in the face with it. I barely catch it before it can clatter to the floor, my heart pounding in the process.

Quickly, I study the lock on the chains. Then I start working the pointed, thin screw attached to the underside of it into the lock. Lily taught me how to break locks after I locked myself out of my bar.

It’s all about feeling for the pins,she’d said, demonstrating with a bobby pin.You need to push them up one at a time until they catch. Like solving a puzzle with your fingers.

I angle the metal just right, the way she showed me, pressing upward with careful pressure. My fingers work blindly, searching for that telltale resistance that means I’ve found one. The metal scrapes against metal as I probe deeper. A tiny click sounds, and I smile. One pin down. Now for the others.

Minutes crawl by as I probe the lock, refusing to give up.

Another tiny click and another, the sound almost lost in the howling wind outside. The shackle suddenly springs open.

Yes! Fuck you, Marcus.

Free of the chains, I slide off the bed. The floorboards creak under my feet, and I wince.Shut up, shut up, shut up.

A burst of laughter from somewhere in the house makes me jump. Marcus’s voice carries through the old walls, something about making a phone call. My stomach churns at his casual tone, as though he’s at a business meeting instead of holding someone captive. Bastard’s probably calling his investment buddies, planning how to carve up my bar.

I decide to avoid the door and go right for the window. The wind blows louder outside, rattling the windowpanes. Snow swirls beyond the dirty glass, thick enough to obscure anything more than a few feet away.

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